THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON 

OR, 

THE  WIDOWED  BEIDE. 


BY  MRS.  EMMA  D.  E.  N.  SOUTHWORTH. 

AUTHOR     OF      "SELF-RAISED,"       "  ISHMAEL,"      "FAIR      PLAY,"      "A      NOBLE     LORD/ 

"  THE  CHANGED  BRIDES,"  "A  BEAUTIFUL  FIEND,"  "  HOW  HE  WON  HER,"  "  RETRIBUTION," 

"THE  BRIDE'S  FATE,"  "THE  LADY  OF  THE  ISLE,"  "CRUEL  AS  THE  GRAVE,"  "VIVIA," 

"THE  WIDOW'S  SON,"   "ALLWORTH  ABBEY,"    "THE  LOST  HEIRESS,"   "INDIA," 

"THE GYPSY'S  PROPHECY,"  "THE  ARTIST'S  LOVE,"  "THE  THREE  BEAUTIES," 

"VICTOR'S    TRIUMPH,"    "THE    MISSING    BRIDE,"     "FALLEN    PRIDE," 

"THE  FATAL  SECRET,"  "THE  SPECTRE  LOVER,"  "  MAIDEN  WIDOW," 

"THE  TWO  SISTERS,"  "  FATAL  MARRIAGE,"  "  THE  BRIDAL  EVE," 

"THE  HAUNTED  HOMESTEAD,"  "THE  PRINCE  OF  DARKNESS," 

"TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE,"  "  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER,"  ETC. 


"THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON;  OR,  THE  WIDOWED  BRIDE"  will  be  found,  on  perusal  by  all, 
to  be  equal,  if  not  superior,  to  any  of  the  previous  works  by  the  celebrated  American  authoress, 
Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth,  who  is  now  conceded  by  critics  to  be  the  most  popular 
female  writer  living,  and  her  works  to  be  among  the  greatest  novels  in  the  English  language,  as 
well  as  the  most  splendid  pictures  of  American  life  ever  written.  "  THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON  " 
shows  all  the  grace,  vigor,  and  absorbing  interest  to  be  found  in  "  Ishmael "  and  "  Self-Raised," 
her  last  two  works,  and  places  Mrs.  Southworth  in  the  front  rank  of  living  novelists.  The  same 
indescribable  charm  pervades  all  her  works,  which  can  only  emanate  from  a  female  mind,  and 
the  excellences  of  "  THE  CURSK  OF  CLIFTON  "  are  many  and  great.  It  is  a  model  book — 
graphic,  brilliant  and  original.  The  romance  is  glowing  and  bold,  possessing  an  absorbing  in 
terest  that  can  attach  only  to  real  existences  and  life-like  portraitures.  The  characters  are 
beautifully  drawn,  and  the  novel  throughout  is  highly  exciting  and  of  unexceptionable  moral 
tendency.  It  ought  to  be  read  by  everybody  in  the  cheap  form  in  which  it  is  now  issued. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

T.   B.   PETERSON  &  BROTHERS; 
306     CHESTNUT    STREET. 


COPY  HIGH  T:  — 1875. 


MRS,  E.  D.  E.  K  SOUTHWORTH'S  COMPLETE  WORKS. 

EACH  WORK  IS  COMPLETE  IN  ONE  LARGE  DUODECIMO  VOLUME, 

SELF-RAISED;  or,  FROM  THE  DEPTHS.    Sequel  to  Ishmael. 
ISHMAEL;  or,    IN  THE  DEPTHS.     (Being  Self -Made.) 
IHE  MOTIIER-IN-LA  W;  or,  MARRIED  IN  HASTE. 

THE  PHANTOM  WEDDING  ;  or,  Fall  of  House  of  Flint. 
THE  MISSING  BRIDE;  or,  MIRIAM,  THE  AVENGER. 
A  BKAUTIFUL  FIEND;  or,  THROUGH  THE  FIRE. 
VI C TOR '  S  TRIUMPH.     A  Sequel  to  '  'A  Beautiful  Fiend. ' ' 

THE  FATAL  MARRIAGE;  or,  Orville  Deville. 
FAIR  PLAY;  or,  BRITOMARTE,  the  MAN  HATER. 
HOW  HE    WON  HER.     A    Sequel  to   "Fair  Play." 
THE  CHANGED  BRIDES;  or,  Winning  Her  Way. 

THE  BRIDE ' S  FA  TE.     Sequel  to  ' ' The  Changed  Brides. ' ' 
CRUEL  AS  THE  GRAVE;  or,  Hallow- Eve  Mystery. 

TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE.     A  Sequel  to  "Cruel  as  the  Grave." 
THE  CHRISTMAS  GUEST;  or,  The  Crime  and  the  Curse. 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  ISLE;  or,  The  Island  Princess. 
THE  LOST  HEIR  OF  LINLITHGOW;  or,  The  Brothers. 
A  NOBLE  LORD.     Sequel  to  "The  Lost.  Heir  of  Linlilhgow." 
THE  FAMILY  DOOM;  or,  the  SIN  OF  A   COUNTESS. 
THE  MA  WEN  WID  0  W.     Sequel  to  ' '  The  Family  Doom." 
THE   GIPSY'S  PROPHECY;  or,  The  Bride  of  an  Evening. 
THE  FORTUNE  SEEKER;  or,  Astrea,  the  Bridal  Day. 
THE   THREE  BEAUTIES;  or,  Shannondale. 

ALL  WORTH  ABBEY;  or,  Eudora. 

FALLEN  PRIDE;  or,  THE  MOUNTAIN  GIRL'S  LOVE. 
INDIA;  or,  THE  PEARL   OF  PEARL  RIVER. 
VI VI A;  or,  THE  SECRET  OF  POWER. 

THE   WIDOW'S  SON;  or,  Left  Alone. 

THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER;  or,  The  Children  of  the  Isle. 
BRIDE   OF  LLEWELLYN.     Sequel  to  "The  Widow's  Son." 
THE  BRIDAL  EVE;  or,  Rose  Elmer. 

THE  PRINCE   OF  DARKNESS;  or,  Hickory  Hall. 
THE  DESERTED   WIFE.  HAUNTED  HOMESTEAD. 

THE  L  OST  HEIRESS.  THE  SPE  CTRE  L  0  VER. 

THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY.  THE  FATAL  SECRET. 

THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON.       THE  TWO  SISTERS. 
THE  ARTISTS  LOVE.  LOVE'S  LABOR   WON. 

MYSTERY  OF  DARK  HOLLOW.       RETRIBUTION. 

Above  Books  are  Bound  in  Morocco  Cloth,    Price  $1.50  Each, 


rs.  Southworth's  works  are  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  copies 
of  any  one,  or  more  of  them,  will  be  sent  to  any  one,  postage  prepaid,  or 
free  of  freight,  on  remitting  the  price  of  the  ones  wanted,  to  the  publishers, 

T.  B.  PETERSON  fr  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 

GIFT 


CB 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGK 

I.    THE    MOUNTAIN     HUT 17 

II.    CLIFTON    AND    THE    BEAUTIES 42 

III.  MRS.    CLIFTC&,    OF    HARDBABGAIN 54 

IV.  THE    TIDE   OF    FATE G5 

V.    THE    OLD    MAN    AND    HIS    BRIDE 75 

VI.    THE    RUPTURED    TIE 84 

VII.    THE    SEVERED    HEARTS 102 

VIII.    LOST    AFFECTION 115 

ix.  WOMAN'S  PRIDE 142 

X.    THE    SISTERS 156 

XI.    MRS/ FAIRFAX    AND    MAJOR    CABELL 161 

XII.    SUSPENSE 1G9 

xin.  ARCHER  CLIFTON'S  SKETCHES 176 

XIV.    THE    DISCIPLINE    OF    AFFLICTION 185 

XV.    THE    BLACK    SEAL 195 

xvi.  MR.  CLIFTON'S  RESOLUTION 203 

XVII.    THE    WIDOWED    BRIDE 208 

XVIII.    THE    YOUNG    MOURNER 217 

XIX.    CONFESSION 228 

XX.    A    DOMESTIC    SCENE 235 

XXI.    IN    THE   CITY 245 

(15) 

Oil 


16  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER.  PAOK 

xxn.  LIFE'S  VARIOUS  PHASES 255 

XXIII.    ZULEIME. 265 

xxiv.  Tins  CATASTROPHE f 276 

XXV.    "IN    PALACE    CHAMBERS." 294 

XXVI.    GEORGIA 313 

XXVII.    CATHERINE 324 

XXVIII.    WINTER    EVENINGS    AT    THE    FARM 329 

XXIX.    THE    RETURN '. 338 

XXX.    BETROTHAL 348 

XXXI.    THE    POISON    WORKS 363 

XXXII.    DEDICATION 371 

XXXIII.    "  THE    MEEKNESS    OF    LOVE." 380 

xxxiv.  CATHERINE'S  REGENCY 397 

xxv.  CATHERINE'S  PROGRESS 406 

XXXVI.    THE    NIGHT    JOURNEY 415 

XXXVII.    THE    GOAL 436 

XXXVIII.    CONCLUSION 453 


THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  HUT. 

A  lonesome  lodge 
That  stands  so  lowe  in  lonely  glen, 
The  little  windowe,  dim  and  darke, 
Is  hung  with  ivy,  brier  and  ye  we.  '.'  ,  /^   'v 

PERCY'S  RELIQUKS.    J      r^ 


UPON  a  glorious  morning,  in  the  midsummer  of  18  —  ,  two 
equestrian  travellers  spurred  their  horses  up  the  ascent  of 
the  Eagle's  Flight,  the  loftiest  and  most  perilous  pass  of  the 
Alleghanies. 

Though  the  sun  was  near  the  meridian,  and  all  the  sky 
above  was  "  darkly,  deeply,  beautifully  blue,"  and  perfectly 
clear,  yet  all  the  earth  beneath  was  covered  by  a  thick,  low- 
lying  fog. 

On  reaching  the  highest  point  of  the  pass,  both  travellers 
drew  rein  and  paused,  looking  —  North,  South,  East,  West  — 
over  the  ocean  of  vapor  rolling  from  horizon  to  horizon  below 
them  !  And  while  they  so  pause,  let  us  catch  that  nearly  ver 
tical  ray  of  the  sun  that  falls  upon  them,  lighting  up  the  group 
like  fire  above  the  fog,  and  daguerreotype  them  as  they  stand. 

Both  are  young  men  of  about  the  same  age,  probably 
twenty-five  ;  both  are  well  mounted  upon  fine  bay  horses  , 
and  both  wear  the  undress  uniform  of  the  -  Regiment 
of  Cavalry  ;  and  here  all  resemblance  between  them  ceases. 

He  on  the  right  hand,  who  holds  in  his  horse's  head  with 
BO  tight  a  rein,  causing  the  gallant  steed  to  arch  his  beautiful 
gracefully,  while  he  lets  fly  a  falcon-glance  around 
(17) 


18  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

the  shrouded  horizon,  is  Archer  Clifton,  of  Clifton,  now  hold 

ing  the  rank  of  Captain  in  the Regiment  of  Cavalry. 

His  form  is  of  middle  size,  strongly  built,  yet  elegantly  pro 
portioned.  His  complexion  is  dark  and  bronzed  as  by  ex 
posure  ;  his  features  are  Roman ;  his  hair  and  whiskers 
trimly  cut,  are  of  the  darkest  chestnut,  with  what  painters 
call  cool  lights,  which  is  to  say,  that  there  is  no  warmth  of 
csloring  even  where  the  sun  lights.  Indeed,  there  is  no 
warmth  about  the  looks  of  the  whole  man.  His  eyes  are 
singularly  beautiful  and  brilliant,  combining  all  those  dark, 
shifting,  scintillating,  prismatic  hues,  that  would  drive  an 
artist  mad,  for  want  of  colors  to  portray,  or  an  author  to 
despair,  for  lack  of  words  to  describe.  He  wears  the  dark 
blue  uniform  of  his  regiment,  and  manages  his  noble  charger 
with  the  ease  and  grace  only  to  be  found  in  the  accomplished 
cavalry  officer. 

He  upon  the  left  hand,  who,  with  languid  air  and  loosened 
rein,  inclines  his  body  forward,  permitting  his  graceful  horse 
to  droop  his  head  and  scent  the  earth,  as  in  quest  of  herbage, 
is  Francis  Fairfax,  of  Green  Plains,  a  Lieutenant  in  the  com 
pany  under  the  command  of  Captain  Clifton.  He  is  of  about 
the  same  height  of  Clifton,  but  his  figure  is  slender  almost  to 
fragility.  His  features  are  delicate  and  piquant.  His  com 
plexion  is  fair  and  transparent.  His  hair  is  also  very  fair, 
and  waves  off  from  a  forehead  so  snowy,  round  and  smooth, 
as  to  seem  child-like,  especially  with  those  clear  blue  eyes, 
that  now  brood  roguishly  under  their  golden  lashes,  as  in 
profound  quest  of  mischief,  and  now  light  up  and  sparkle  with 
fun  and  frolic.  He  mismanages  his  spoiled  pet  of  a  steed 
with  the  charming  insouciance,  only  to  be  seen  in  the  aruateur 
poet,  painter,  player,  musician,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  And  yet 
there  is  sometimes  an  earnest,  thoughtful  aspect  about  the 
youth,  that  surprises  one  into  the  suspicion  that  all  his  levity 
is  superficial,  and  hides  his  deeper  and  better  nature,  as  stub- 
bio  sometimes  covers  and  conceals  a  mine  of  precious  metal. 

"Well!"  at  last  spoke  Mr.  Fairfax,  "it  is  now  about 
twelve  hours  since  we  were  emptied  out  of  that  atrocious  old 
stage  coach,  which,  for  a  week  past,  has  been  beating  us 
about  in  its  interior,  from  side  to  side,  and  from  seat  to  ceil 
ing,  as  if  we  were  a  lump  of  butter  in  an  old  woman's  churn, 
and  whose  kindest  turn  of  all  to  us  was,  when  it  turned 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  19 

am  shook  us  out  down  the  precipice,  and  intc  the  trough  of 
tho  Wolf's  Lick,  as  if  we  had  been  apples  fed  to  the  pigs 
Oh  !  by  the  lost  baronetcy  of  the  house  of  Fairfax,  my  sclf- 
entcem  will  never  recover  the  effects  of  it !  Perdition  seizo 
tho  picturesque  at  this  price  !  And  ever  since  long  before 
davbreak  this  morning,  have  we  been  wandering  about  over 
those  mountain  tops,  with  the  earth  below  us  hidden  in  mist 
apd  only  the  highest  peaks  looming  through  the  sea  of  vapor 
like  islands  in  the  ocean  !  And  we  plungin^  wildly  about  in 
the  fog,  like  death  on  the  pale  horse  riding  the  waves  !  And 
to  the  momentarily  recurring  risk  of  riding  over  some  hidden 
precipice  of  a  thousand  feet  perpendicular.  If  this  be 
y^ur  glorious  mountain  scenery,  to  the  demon  with  it! 
F^r  I  had  as  lief  be  on  the  open  sea  with  the  <  Ancient 
Mariner!'" 

To  this  half  petulant,  half  laughing  philipic  Captain  Clif 
ton,  while  his  glance  still  roved  over  the  shrouded  hemis 
phere,  replied,  with  an  indulgent  smile — 

"  You  cannot  see  the  face  of  the  country  for  the  morning 
veil  she  chooses  to  wear.  But  wait  till  high  noon,  when  the 
sun,  her  royal  lover,  in  the  meridian  of  his  glory,  shall  raise 
that  gauzy  covering,  and  she,  like  a  right  royal  bride,  shall 
smile  and  blush  in  light  and  glory." 

"  "By  my  soul,  I  could  fancy  the  lady  earth  wore  this  veil 
to  conceal  fast  gathering  tears,  rather  than  smiles  or  blushes ! 
Jlnglice,  I  think  we  shall  have  rain  soon — though  blistered 
be  my  tongue  for  saying  it! — not  about  the  rain  but  about 
the  veil !  For,  look  you !  Fret  as  I  may  at  this  journey 
through  the  mist — yet  this  fine  scenery,  under  a  cloud  as  it 
literally  is,  gives  me  a  feeling  of  breadth,  grandeur !  I  ex 
pand,  spread  out  over  the  vast  area  of  its  shrouded  solitudes 
Oh !  it  is  only  on  the  boundless  sea  or  on  the  mountain  top, 
with  a  hemisphere  below  me,  that  I  feel  as  if  I  had  room 
enough  to  live  in !  And  you  give  me  a  feeling  of  suffocation 
oy  drawing  in  this  awful  shrouded  world  to  the  simile  of  a 
lady's  veiled  face  !  But  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at!  No, 
by  the  shade  of  Marc  Antony,  and  all  other  great  men,  who 
beld  the  whole  world  light  in  the  balance  with  a  woman'? 
evanescent  smile  or  tear!  everything  is  apropos  du  femmsa 
with  you  now.  Could  the  music  of  the  spheres  suddenly 
burst  upon  your  astonished  ears,  as  soon  ad  you  had  recovered 


20  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

your  senses,  your  highest  note  of  admiration  would  bo  to 
compare  that  universal  diapason  of  divine  harmony  to  Lady 
Carolyn's  silver  laugh !" 

"  I  do  not  recollect  ever  to  have  heard  J  Lady'  Carolyn 
laugh." 

*'Te>i  thousand  pardons!  A  Clifton  of  Clifton  never 
laughs.  But  tell  me,  Captain,  whereabouts  in  the  world-- 
I  mean  in  the  clouds,  are  we  ?  And  when  shall  we  see  this 
pure  pearl  of  beauty  and  the  rich  casket  that  enshrines  her , 
this  stately  lily  of  the  mountains  and  the  parterre  where  she 
blooms; — when  shall  we  behold  Paradise  and  the  Peri — 
Clifton  and  Lady  Carolyn  ?" 

Without  replying  to  this  mock-poetic  strain,  Captain  Clifton 
remained  with  his  eyes  still  wandering  from  East  to  West, 
and  back  again  over  the  rolling  vapor.  And  Fairfax  con 
tinued — 

"  I  suspect  now,  by  your  abstracted  air  ind  wandering 
eye,  that  you  have  lost  your  way  in  the  clouds — not  the  first 
time  such  a  thing  has  happened  to  a  lover,  nor  would  it  be 
strange  in  a  place  like  this,  where  the  only  land-marks  are 
mountain  tops  sticking  out  of  the  fog  with  a  day's  journey 
between  each !" 

At  this  instant  a  distant  group  of  peaks  broke  suddenly 
through  the  mist  like  new  isles  thrown  up  by  the  sea,  and 
glittered  whitely  in  the  sunlight  against  the  deep  blue 
horizon. 

"See!"  exclaimed  Clifton,  roused  from  his  apathy  by  the 
sudden  apparition.  "  Look,  Fairfax  !  I  will  show  you  White 
Cliffs  !  Look  straight  before  you  to  the  Western  horizon — 
a  little  North  of  West.  You  see  a  crescent  of  seven  peaks 
rising  through  the  mist  against  the  sky.  That  is  White 
Cliffs." 

"  Looking  white  enough  at  this  distance — quite  like  snow 
capped  mountains,  in  fact." 

"  Yes.  They  are  of  white  quartz,  and  their  peaks  rising 
from  the  girdle  of  dark  evergreens  around  their  base  and 
sides,  have  quite  a  cooling  effect  in  hot  weather." 

"  Ah !  just  so.  Now  how  far  off  are  those  same  blessed 
refrigerators  ?" 

"  About  twenty-five  miles  in  a  bee-line.  But  the  moun- 
fain  road  is  very  circuitous,  and  makes  the  distance  nearlj 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  21 

forty.  However,  if  we  ride  well,  we  shall  be  able  to  reach 
Clifton  in  time  to  surprise  Mrs.  Clifton  at  tea." 

"  Heaven  be  praised  for  that  possibility !"  ejaculated 
Fairfax,  as  they  prepared  to  descend  the  mountaic 
side. 

As  they  rode  down,  Captain  Clifton,  warming  slightly  from 
his  cool  reserve,  said — 

"  I  think,  Fairfax,  that  you,  poet  and  artist  as  you  clainc 
to  be,  will  rather  like  Clifton.  Tourists,  who  have  visited 
our  part  of  the  country,  think  the  scenery  there  very  fine. 
It  impresses  me  merely  as  being  unique.  There  is  something 
formal — but,  to  myself,  not  therefore  unpleasing  in  that 
crescent  of  seven  peaks — the  tallest  being  in  the  centre  and 
gradually  declining  thence  to  the  lowest,  which  may  be  called 
the  horns  of  the  crescent,  and  point  Southward.  Those 
peaks  rise  from  a  forest  of — first  elms  and  oaks  around  their 
base  ;  then  pines  farther  up  their  sides ;  and  last  of  cedars, 
above  which  rise  the  pinnacle  of  white  quartz.  This  crescent 
of  mountains  surrounds  and  shelters  from  the  North  winds 
the  family  mansion,  which  is  situated  in  the  woods  at  its  foot. 
North  of  the  peaks,  the  country  is  wild  and  rugged,  but 
partly  covered  with  thick  forest,  and  affording  the  best  hunt 
ing  grounds  in  the  world.  There  you  may  course  the  hare ; 
track  the  deer ;  or  if  your  tastes  aspire  to  a  fiercer  conflict, 
hunt  the  wolf,  the  wild  cat,  or  the  bear — !" 

"  — Or  the  rattle-snake,  copper-head,  or  moccasin  !  Thank 
you,  I  have  no  inclination  for  crusade  against  those  moun 
taineers,"  laughed  Fairfax. 

"  Perhaps  you  like  angling  ?  There  is  a  trout  stream  at 
the  foot  of  the  wooded  lawn,  in  front  of  the  house.  I  must 
tell  you  about  that,  for  it  is  the  head  waters  of  a  fine 
river. 

"  From  the  Western  cliff  there  springs  a  torrent  that  with 
many  a  leap,  and  fall,  and  rebound,  tumbles  tumultuously 
down  the  side  of  the  mountain,  and  falling  into  a  channel  at 
the  foot  of  the  lawn  flows  calmly  on,  until  it  meets  a  second 
fall,  from  whence  it  goes  hurrying  on,  through  forests,  fields 
and  rocks,  taking  tribute  from  many  a  mountain-torrent,  and 
many  a  meadow-stream,  and  widening  as  it  goes,  until  it  be 
comes  a  mighty  ri^er,  rushing  on,  to  pour  its  floods  into  the 
majestic  James.  After  which,  they  both  go  on,  breaking 


22  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT 

through  range  after  range  of  mountains,  and  so  cor.quer  theii 
passage  to  the  sea — even  as  in  the  feudal  days  of  the  olden 
country,  some  mountain  chieftain,  gathering  his  vassal?  to 
gether,  came  rushing  down  from  his  highland  home,  and 
laying  all  the  country  under  tribute  in  his  course,  hurried  or 
to  throw  all  his  treasures  at  the  feet  of  his  sovereign,  and  go 
with  him  to  the  wars." 

"  Clifton!"  said  Fairfax,  more  seriously  than  he  had  yet 
ipoken,  "  all  your  illustrations — all  your  metaphors — all 
/our  thoughts,  fancies  and  imaginings  are — not  <  of  the  earth, 
earthy,'  but  worse — far  worse — of  the  world,  worldly  !  Of 
the  world,  its  castes,  customs  and  conventions — its  pomps, 
vanities  and  falsities !  You  speak  of  the  grandest,  the  most 
imposing — oh  !  let  me  call  it  at  once,  the  most  magnificent 
area  of  mountain-scenery  in  the  hemisphere,  with  all  the 
earth,  below  and  around,  covered  with  a  sea  of  vapor  that 
rises  and  falls,  rolling  from  horizon  to  horizon,  like  the  waves 
of  the  ocean,  and  you  compare  it  to  a  veiled  royal  bride! 
You  describe  a  mighty  mountain-river,  rending  its  passage 
through  the  everlasting  rocks,  overleaping,  uprooting,  bear 
ing  down  and  bearing  on  all  obstacles  to  its  resistless  rush 
towards  the  sea,  and  you  liken  it  to  a  chieftain  going  to  pay 
tribute  to  a  King !  Ah,  Clifton  of  Clifton,  the  beauty,  the 
glory,  and  the  majesty  of  the  earth  pleases  you,  but  the 
'  pomp,  pride,  and  circumstance'  of  the  world  inspires  you  ! 
But  when  was  it  otherwise  with  a  Clifton,  of  Clifton  1  «  The 
spirit  of  intense  worldliness  has  ever  beeen  their  bane  and 
curse — their  sin  and  its  punishment!'"  he  concluded,  ro- 
lapsing  into  his  mock-tragic  air. 

"  Ah !  so  you  are  familiar  with  the  popular  legend  that 
you  have  just  quoted,"  said  Captain  Clifton.  "But,"  he 
added,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  "  were  Georgia  here,  I  think 
she  could  refute  the  charge,  and  prove  one  Clifton,  at  least, 
has  been  guided  by  any  spirit  rather  than  that  of  *  intense 
Worldliness.' " 

"Georgia?" 

"  I  beg  her  pardon  !     Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Clifton." 

**0h!  your  aunt!  but  by  my  soul,  Captain,  that  -was  a 
very  irreverent  way  of  introducing  the  old  lady  !  Do  young 
jitn  in  your  patriarchal  part  of  the  country  call  old  gentle 
women  by  their  Christian  names  1" 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  23 

"  Old  gentlewomen !"  repeated  Clifton  slowly,  \vitn  a 
musing  smile,  adding — "  Georgia  is  about  seventeen  years 
of  age,  and  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world  !" 

"  Whe-e-e-ew !  I'm  amazed!  I'm  confounded!  I'm 
stunned !  Then — the  present  Mrs.  Clifton  is  the  second  wife *" 

"  No.  sir — Georgia  is  my  uncle's  fourth  wife." 

"  Overwhelmed ! — annihilated !"  exclaimed  the  young  man. 
<  The—  the— old  Blue-beard  !  the  old  Henry  VIII. !  Four 
wives !  Are  they  all  living  ? — if  not,  where  does  he  bury  his 
dead  1" 

61  Fairfax!"  exclaimed  Captain  Clifton,  in  a  tone,  and 
with  a  look,  that  speedily  recalled  the  young  man  to  himself 
•—then  he  added,  rather  haughtily — "  My  Uncle  Clifton  is  a 
simple,  gentle-hearted  old  man,  excessively  fond  of  women, 
but  mark  you,  sir ! — it  is  the  affection  of  the  patriarch,  no*, 
of  the  pacha." 

"  Hang  me  if  ever  I  saw  any  difference  between  Solomon 
the  king,  and  Solimaun  the  caliph;  Abraham  the  patriarch, 
and  Aroun  the  pacha,  in  that  respect,"  laughed  the  young 
man,  until,  stealing  a  furtive  glance  at  the  cold  and  haughty 
face  of  Clifton,  he  held  out  his  hand,  and  suddenly  exclaimed 
— "  Pardon  me,  Clifton  !  or  call  me  out !  I — can't  help  a 
jest,  to  save  my  soul !  but  I'll  fight  or  apologize,  or  render 
any  other  sort  of  satisfaction  afterwards!" 

Captain  Clifton  remembered  that  Francis  Fairfax  was  his 
guest,  going  to  spend  a  long  mid-summer  furlough  at  hi? 
mother's  house,  and  so  he  cleared  his  brow  and  answered — • 

"  Nonsense !" 

"  Now  tell  me  about  Henry  VIII. 's  fourth  Queen — how 
long  has  she  been  married — I  mean  the  present  Mrs.  Clifton  ?" 

"  About  two  years.  My  uncle  wedded  her  when  she  was 
fifteen — she  is  now  seventeen — and,  as  I  said,  the  most  beau 
tiful  creature  that  you,  or  I,  or  any  one  else,  ever  did,  or 
ever  shall  see,  anywhere." 

"  Allans — stop  there  !  False  knight  and  recreant !  whose 
colors  do  you  wear  while  you  uphold  the  peerless  beauty  of 
Georgia l  What  would  Miss  Clifton  of  Clifton  say  to  your 
admiration  ?" 

**  .Ridiculous,  sir  !  Miss  Clifton  is  herself  very  beautiful 
bat  not  the  most  beautiful.  Miss  Clifton  has  other  and 
•are.r  distinctions,  I  am  proud  to  say  ?" 


24  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

"  Oh,  I  understand — her  family  name  ! — nevertheless,  be 
nanged  if  I  don't  believe  you  have  been  in  love  witk 
Georgia  !" 

"  Impossible,  sir !  The  perfect  beauty  of  the  young  girl 
struck  me  forcibly,  as  it  strikes  all  others — nay,  more — im 
pressed  my  imagination  deeply  perhaps.  I  confess  to  a 
penchant  for  female  beauty — and — observe — it  is  the  artist's 
taste,  sir,  not  the  sultan's.  But  in  love  with  Georgia !  Im 
possible,  sir  !  She  was  a  girl  of  humble  parentage  !" 

"  Ah  !  then  you  think  it  quite  <  impossible '  that  a  gentle 
man  born,  should  be  in  love  with  a  girl  of  *  humble  parent 
age  ?'» 

"  Preposterous,  sir  ! — utterly  preposterous !  Pray,  let  us 
hear  no  more  about  it !" 

"  Yet  your  uncle — " 

"  My  uncle  married  such  an  one,  you  would  say.  Old 
gentlemen,  living  on  their  own  estates,  will  do  such  things. 
And  the  world  charitably  ascribes  it  to  dotage,  smiles  and 
forgives  them.  You  will  oblige  me  by  changing  the  subject, 
Frank." 

Fairfax  fell  into  reverie,  and  Clifton  dropped  into  thought, 
and  they  rode  on  for  some  time  in  silence,  and  in — joy— 
until — 

"  Floods  and  furies  !  Fire  and  flames ! !  Lightning  and 
tempests,  and  sudden  death  ! !  !"  exclaimed  Fairfax,  rearing 
and  backing  his  horse  with  a  terrible  jerk,  and  throwing  him 
self  from  the  saddle,  bathed  in  perspiration,  and  shaking  with 
terror.  "  Look  !  Look  there !  There  at  your  feet !  Back  ! 
Back  your  horse,  unless  you  wish  to  ride  straight  to  tho 
kingdom  of  Heaven,  or — to  the  other  place !  Oh,  blessed 
Lord!  I  shall  never  survive  the  shock!" 

Captain  Clifton  backed  his  horse,  dismounted,  and  follow 
ing  the  index  of  Fairfax,  approached  the  brink  of  the  awful 
abyss,  and  looked  down  a  perpendicular  precipice  of  more 
than  a  thousand  feet,  with  the  remaining  distance  lost  in 
shadows  and  dim  vapors,  while  faintly  to  the  ear  came  a  low 
and  hollow  murmur,  as  of  the  roaring  of  many  waters  at  a 
vast  depth ! 

"  This  is  the  head  of  the  Devil's  Staircase  !  We  have  lost 
our  way  '"  said  Captain  Clifton. 

4  Devil's  Staircase  !     I  si  ould  think  it  was  !     TJgh '    Oo- 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HU1.  25 

oo-oo-ooh  !  I  shall  never  survive  it !  Where  does  it  lead  to  1 
Tell  me  that !  To  the  infernal  regions,  T  suppose,  of  course. 
Ur-r-r-r-r  !"  exclaimed  Fairfax,  with  his  teeth  chattering. 

u  We  have  indeed  made  a  very  narrow  escape,"  said  Cap~ 
tain  Clifton,  gazing  thoughtfully  down  the  horrible  pit. 

u  Narrow  escape  !  Ur-r-r-r-r  !"  exclaimed  Frank,  shaking, 
shuddering,  and  streaming  with  cold  perspiration.  "  I  tell 
you,  when  I  was  providentially  led  to  look  down,  and  saw  the 
fog  roll  away  from  beneath  my  horse's  feet,  and  reveal  that 
ghastly — Ur-r-r-r-r  !  Ur-r-r-r-r !  I  believe  I  shall  chatter  my 
teeth  to  powder !" 

"  Come,  come,  Fairfax  !  this  is  really  unmanly.  Thank 
an  ever-watchful  Providence,  that  has  preserved  you  from  a 
sudden  and  horrible  death,  and  calm  yourself.  Be  a 
man!" 

"  Be  a  man  !  You  might  as  well  say  to  my  shuddering 
horse,  there — be  a  horse !  This  is  unhorsely  !  Ur-r-r-r-r . 
I  tell  you  it  has  given  me  the  tertian  ague !" 

"  Why,  Frank  !  Keally  !" 

"  Look  at  my  horse — look  even  at  that  dumV  beast !  Yes, 
look  at  that  gallant  steed,  who  would  charp-e  up^n  a  phalanx 
of  fixed  bayonets,  and  impale  himself  upon  ihwv  points,  if 
spurred  to  it — look  at  him !  Positively  frozen  w*th  terror  !" 

"  Fairfax,  you  astonish  me — certainly  you  are  not  really 
so  much  overcome." 

"  Overcome !  My  nerves  are  shattered  to  at^nis,  I  tell 
you  !  Ur-r-r-r-r  !  It  has  given  me  the  tertian  *guc,  aud 
the  St.  Vitus'  dance  !  both  together  !  Ur-r-r-r-r !" 

"  Now  who  would  have  supposed  you  to  be  a — of  such  a 
nervous  temperament !  Come,  let  me  assist  you  te  mount, 
and  then  away." 

"  What !  And  at  the  end  of  the  next  hundred  yaHs,  ride 
headlong  over  a  precipice  of  fifteen  hundred  feet,  and  Before 
night  find  sepulchre  in  the  maws  of  fifty  turkey-buzzards  !  I 
tell  you  there  is  neither  a  glorious  death,  an  honorable  b"rial 
nor  an  immortal  fame  to  be  found  in  such  a  fate !  Helena 
and  earth,  no  !  For  instance — '  Whatever  became  of  *hat 
poor  devil,  Fairfax  ?'  asks  one.  <  Oh,  one  day,  crossing  *he 
moumtains  in  a  fog,  with  his  head  in  a  mist,  he  had  the  awk 
wardness  to  pitch  himself  headforemost  down  the  Devi's 
Ladder,  iu  the  Al1  ^ghanies,'  answers  t'other.  'P«orcra»- 


26  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

twe!  He  was  always  a  miserable — but  where  was  he  buried  ?-' 
'  He  wa'n't  buried — the  crows  eat  him  up,'  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  \ 
Oh  !  I  know  what  my  posthumous  fame  would  be  in  such  a 
case.  Quite  different  from  that  of  the  future  Major-Genera, 
Francis  Fairfax,  who,  fifty  years  hence,  at  a  good  old  age, 
shall  die  in  his  downy  bed,  with  the  archbishop  praying  by 
him,  and  be  buried  with  the  highest  honors  of  war,  and  have 
a  national  monument  raised  to  his  fame,  emblazoning  his  im» 
mortal  services  to  his  grateful  sountry,  in  receiving  her 
honors  and  emoluments  for  more  that  half  a  century  !  Can't 
give  up  that  glorious  future  for  the  sake  of  dashing  myself 
to  pieces  this  afternoon,  Clifton.  No  !"  said  the  young  man, 
folding  his  arms,  and  striking  an  attitude  a-la-Napolcon, 
u  I  have  a  destiny  to  fulfill,  and  shall  not  stir  from  this  spot 
until  the  mist  rises  or  falls." 

"  Mr.  Fairfax !  it  is  now  drawing  late  in  the  afternoon.  We 
shall  have  a  storm  before  night ;  and  a  storm  on  the  moun 
tains,  let  me  tell  you,  is  a  much  more  delightful  thing  to  read 
about  in  Childe  Harold,  while  stretched  at  your  ease  upon 
the  settee  fn^yorrr  shady  piazza,  than  to  take  in  pro~ 
pria  persona  on  the  Alleghanies,"  said  Captain  Clifton, 
quietly. 

"  Only  warrant  me  from  bringing  up  suddenly  to  the 
jumping-off  place  before  I  know  it — and  I'll  make  an  at- 
fempt !  Yea  let  him  only  insure  my  body  unharmed  by 
fire  or  water,  and  I'll  valiantly  follow  my  leader  through 
flood  and  flame!"  replied  Frank,  recovering  himself  with  a 
few  more  shudders,  and  preparing  to  mount. 

"  We  have  left  the  right  road  about  two  miles  behind," 
said  Captain  Clifton,  turning  his  horse's  head  and  leading 
the  way. 

The  fog  below  was  condensing  very  fast.  From  the  North- 
Western  horizon  black  clouds  were  rising  behind  masses  of 
foaming  white  vapor.  The  air  was  still  and  oppressive,  and 
from  all  around  came  a  faint,  low  moaning  sound,  as  if  na 
ture  cowered  and  trembled  before  the  coming  of  the  terrible 
w  storm  king."  The  fog  was  now  rolling  down  and  gather 
ing  into  clouds  below  them — revealing  the  majestic  features 
of  the  landscape,  mountains,  vales  and  forests,  rocks,  glens 
and  waterfalls,  in  wild  and  magnificent  confusion — all  wear 
ing  now  %  savage  and  gloomy  aspect  under  the  shadow  o/ 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  27 

the  coming  storm.  Captain  Clifton's  eye  had  been  con 
stantly  on  the  alert  in  hope  of  discovering  some  mountain 
cabin,  which  might  shelter  them  from  the  **ury  of  the  tem 
pest,  but  as  yet  his  search  was  unsuccessful— no  human 
dwelling  even  of  the  humblest  description  was  to  be  seen. 
At  length  the  attention  of  the  travellers  was  attracted  by 
the  faint  tingling  of  a  bell — then  by  the  bleating  of  sheep — • 
nnd  then  from  the  deep  clouded  glen  at  their  right,  sprung 
up  into  their  path  a  bell-wether  followed  by  two — five — ten — 
a  whole  flock  of  sheep :  and  driven  by  a  girl  on  a  pony ; 
a  little  coarse,  sun-burned  girl,  in  a  boy's  coarse  straw  hat 
and  a  homespun  gown,  riding  on  a  little  rough-coated,  wiry, 
mountain  pony. 

"  A  shepherdess,  by  all  that  is  romantic,"  exclaimed  Fair 
fax,  vaulting  aside  to  let  the  sheep  pass.  Then  springing  to 
the  side  of  the  rough-coated  pony,  he  doffed  his  hat  to  the 
rider  and  said — 

"  My  good  girl — for  the  love  of  Providence,  will  you  tell 
us  where  we  can  find  shelter  from  the  storm  ?" 

The  child  raised  her  fine  eyes  to  the  stranger's  face  with 
the  look  of  a  startled  fawn — and  dropped  them  again  in 
stantly.  Fairfax  repeated  his  question.  The  child  stole 
another  furtive  glance  at  the  fine  gentleman  in  the  very  fine 
uniform,  and  then  at  her  own  coarse  raiment,  and  blushed 
deeply.  But  before  Fairfax  could  reiterate  his  request,  she 
said,  quietly — 

"  Grandfather's  cabin  is  not  far  off,  if  you  and  the  other 
gentleman  will  come  with  me." 

"  With  great  pleasure — and  ten  thousand  thanks,  my  dear 
little  girl.  Be  so  good  as  to  lead  the  way." 

The  flock  of  sheep  had  gone  on  before.  The  girl  put  her 
pony  in  motion,  and  the  gentlemen  followed — Mr.  Fairfax 
addressing  all  his  conversation  to  his  little  companion  ;  and 
Captain  Clifton  riding  on  in  silence  and  abstraction. 

The  sky  was  darkening  very  fast,  and  great  single  drops 
of  rain  occasionally  falling.  They  quickened  their  pace,  and 
after  riding  briskly  several  hundred  yards,  came  to  the  head 
of  a  glen,  deep  down  in  which  was  seen  a  small,  lone  cabin. 
At  this  instant  the  sheet  lightning  glared  from  horizon  to 
horizon,  followed  by  a  report  as  of  exploded  and  falling 
rook*,  and  then  the  "un  came  down  in  a  deluge.  The  dark- 


28  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

ness  was  so  dense  now  as  to  hide  their  way.  The  girl  jumped 
from  her  pony,  and  giving  him  a  little  slap  that  sent  hiir 
travelling  down  the  path,  went  up  to  the  head  of  Clifton?«j 
horse  and  said,  shyly — 

"You  can't  see  the  way,  sir,  and  you  don't  know  tb* 
road — let  me  lead  your  horse." 

"  By  no  means,  my  good  girl,"  replied  Clifton,  gpeaking 
in  a  tone  of  haughty  astonishment. 

Without  reply  the  child  turned  from  him  and  went  to 
wards  Fairfax.  And  at  the  same  instant  a  thunder-bolt  was 
hurled  from  Heaven  with  a  terrific  crash,  riving  the  ground 
on  which  she  had  just  stood.  When  the  panic  was  over,  the 
first  thought  of  Captain  Clifton  was  for  the  safety  of  that 
presumptuous  child.  A  glare  of  lightning  revealed  her 
lying  on  the  rock.  He  hastened  to  her  side. 

"  My  dear  child,  are  you  hurt,"  he  asked,  dismounting 
and  stooping  to  lift  her. 

"  Oh !  sir,  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  speak !  I  thought 
you  were  struck." 

"  Are  you  hurt  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  sir,  I  was  only  thrown  down,"  replied  the  child, 
lightly  springing  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh,  yes !  Exchange  your  mutual  condolences  and  con 
gratulations.  But  who  the  mischief  cares  whether  I  am 
hurt  or  not '?"  exclaimed  Fairfax,  stumbling  along  towards 
them — for  he  also  had  dismounted. 

"  You  were  entirely  out  of  danger,"  replied  Clifton. 

"  Out  of  danger !  Who  the  deuce  is  out  of  danger  within 
a  hundred  miles  of  these  infernal  mountains  ?" 

The"  rain  was  still  pouring  down  in  floods,  and  in  the  inter 
val  of  the  thunder,  the  roar  of  the  swollen  torrents  was 
deafening.  The  question  now  was,  whether  to  remain  stand 
ing  there  exposed  to  all  the  fury  of  the  storm,  or  to  attempt 
the  now  dangerous  descent  into  the  glen. 

"  I  could  lead  your  horses  down  in  safety,  if  you  would 
let  me,  for  I  know  every  inch  of  the  road  so  well,"  said  the 
girl. 

Another  blinding  glare  of  lightning,  another  terrific  pea! 
cf  thunder,  and  another  deluge  of  rain,  put  a  stop  to  all  re 
ply.  At  last  the  child  repeated  her  offer,  saying  that  she 
could  lead  the  horses  down  w«ry  well,  "  one  at  a  time."  But, 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  29 

of  course,  that  was  not  for  a  moment  to  be  thought  of  by 
the  young  men.  And  her  plan  was  rejected  at  once. 

'*  Well,  then,  the  only  way  will  be  to  go  down  on  toot, 
and  leave  your  horses  here  to  follow.  For  you  will  need 
your  hands  as  well  as  your  feet  in  groping  down  the  slippery 
roak  through  the  darkness,"  said  the  girl. 

After  a  little  more  consultation,  her  last  proposition  was 
adopted,  and  they  began  the  descent  on  foot. 

After  some  twenty  minutes'  toil  and  struggle  through 
darkness  and  deluge,  thunder  and  lightning,  they  reached 
the  lowly  door  of  the  cabin,  pushed  it  hastily  open,  and  hur 
ried  in. 

It  was  very  dark,  and  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  the  red 
glow  of  a  few  smouldering  embers  on  the  hearth.  Towards 
these  the  girl  went. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  has  become  of  your  flock  of 
sheep,  my  good  girl  ?"  inquired  Frank,  kindly,  remembering 
her  interests  while  he  stood  there  wringing  the  water  out  of 
his  coat  skirts. 

"  Oh,  the  bell-wether  has  led  them  all  into  the  pen  long 
ago,  sir.  They  are  always  safe  when  they  are  once  in  the 
glen,"  replied  the  child,  as  she  lighted  a  candle. 

The  sudden  glare  of  the  light  showed  a  rude  apartment, 
with  an  earth  floor,  log  walls,  and  a  fire-place  of  unhewn  stone. 
OP  the  right  of  the  fire-place  stood  a  poor  bedstead,  upon 
which  lay  a  venerable,  white-haired  old  man,  covered  with  a 
faded  counterpane,  and  near  the  bed  sat  an  old,  chip-bot 
tomed  arm-chair.  On  the  left  of  the  fire-place  were  two 
rough  plank  shelves,  the  lower  shelf  adorned  with  a  few 

pewter  plates  and  mugs  ;   the  upper  one   filled  with 

books  ! — piles  of  old  dingy,  musty  books  ;  and  near  these 
shelves  stood  a  spinning-wheel,  with  a  broach  of  yarn  on  the 
spindle,  and  a  basket  of  broaches  under  it.  At  the  opposite 
end  of  the  room,  one  corner  was  occupied  by  a  little  old  oak 
table,  and  the  other  by  a  ladder  leading  up  through  a  trap 
door  into  the  loft  overhead.  A  few  rude  stools  were  ranged 
ilong  the  walls,  junks  of  smoked  venison,  ropes  of  onions, 
Dunches  of  dried  herbs,  hanks  of  yarn,  and  the  old  man's  old 
hat  and  coat  garnished  the  walls.  All  this  was  seen  at  • 
glance. 

*'  Is  your  grandfather  sick  'f '  inquired  Frank. 
2 


30  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

The  girl  turned  her  eyes  wistfully  towards  the  venerable 
sleeper,  and  did  not  reply. 

t;  Is  your  grandfather  sick  ?"  repeated  Fairfax. 

The  child  raised  her  eyes  sorrowfully  to  the  face  of  the 
young  man,  and  remained  silent. 

"  Is  he  so  very  sick  ?"  earnestly  reiterated  Frank. 

"  lie  is  not  sick,  sir,"  answered  the  girl,  in  a  low,  sad 
voice. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him,  then  ?"  thoughtlessly  per- 
•isted  Frank. 

Without  reply,  the  girl  dropped  her  eyes,  and  blushing 
deeply,  turned  away.  Setting  the  caudle  down  upon  the 
table,  she  took  a  pail  of  water  and  went  up  the  ladder,  and 
into  the  loft.  After  an  absence  of  a  few  minutes,  she  re 
turned,  and  said — 

"  If  you  will  go  up  stairs  now,  you  will  find  two  suits  of 
grandfather's  and  Carl's  Sunday  clothes.  They  are  not  fine, 
but  they  are  clean  and  dry." 

Our  wet  and  jaded  travellers  thanked  their  young  hostess, 
and  prepared  to  accept  her  offer. 

"  And  if,"  she  added,  "  you  would  like  to  rest  after  so 
much  fatigue,  there  is  a  bed." 

They  reached  the  loft,  and  found  it  a  small,  low  place, 
with  a  little  window,  and  a  little,  clean  bed.  On  the  bed 
lay  the  two  suits  of  homespun,  and  two  coarse  towels.  And 
on  a  stool  near,  sat  a  pail  of  water  and  a  tin  basin. 

"  I  do  believe  that  little  girl  has  given  us  her  own  sanc 
tuary.  What  a  dear  little  thing  she  is  ! — so  full  of  courage, 
and  shyness,  too !  If  she  were  two  or  three  years  older,  and 
a  great  deal  prettier,  I  could  fancy  myself  writing  poetry 
about  her,"  said  Frank. 

Clifton  made  no  comment — he  was  engaged  in  divesting 
himself  of  his  wet  garments,  and  thinking  about — Miss 
Clifton. 

When  they  had  refreshed  themselves  by  washing  and 
changing  their  dress,  Frank  threw  himself  upon  the  bed, 
stretched  out  his  limbs  luxuriously,  and  declared  that  the 
rustic's  clothes  were  very  loose  and  comfortable,  and  his  own 
position  truly  delightful.  Captain  Clifton  walked  to  the 
window,  and  looked  out  at  the  storm,  which  was  now 
abating. 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  3] 

was  already  sound  asleep. 

And  woile  Oliltou  stood  at  the  window,  drawing  compa- 
rKjns  between  the  meanness  of  the  hut  in  which  he  found 
himself,  and  the  magnificence  of  the  mountain  scenery  around 
it,  be  heard — in  that  small,  shell-like  cabin — he  could  not 
help  hearing — what  follows.  First  a  heave  and  plunge,  ag 
if  the  old  man  beJow  stairs  had  started  violently  from  hig 
bed  and  fallen  agair,  and  then  a  fearful,  shuddering  voice 
exclaimed,  "Kate!  Kate!  they're  coming  again!  They're 
after  me,  Kate !  They're  on  me  !  They're  on  me  !  Save 
me,  Kate !  Save  me,  Kate !  Save — " 

"  Grandfather — dear  grandfather,"  said  the  soothing  voice 
of  the  girl,  "  there  is  no  one  here  but  me — there,  there,  be 
quiet — be  still ;  nothing  shall  aurt  you  here — nothing  caa 
you  know." 

"  Look  !  Look,  Kate  !  Look  !  They're  not  men  .now 
but  devils!"  A  violent  plunge,  struggles,  exclamations  of 
terror  and  despair  which  the  low,  soothing  tones  and  gestures 
of  the  poor  girl  vainly  assayed  to  tranquillize  for  some  time, 
and  then — silence  for  a  few  minutes — which  was  again  in 
terrupted  by — "  Snakes  !  snakes,  Kate  !  Snakes  !  Green 
snakes  !  See  !  see  how  they  dart !  They  fly  !  They're  on 
me  !  They're  on  me  !  Help  !  Help  !"  And  the  sound  of  the 
maniac  laying  about  him  furiously.  Captain  Clifton  started 
up  with  the  intention  of  going  to  the  poor  girl's  assistance — 
but  by  the  time  he  reached  the  head  of  the  ladder,  the  voice 
of  the  child  had  again  calmed  the  infuriated  man. 

All  was  quiet  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  then  anothei 
violent  start  and  throw  that  seemed  to  shake  the  little  hut, 
and  a  horrible  shriek  of — "  A  dragon !  A  dragon.  Kate  !  A 
green  dragon  belching  flame  !"  Then  a  succession  of  violent 
shrieks  and  struggles,  which  aroused  Frank,  who  springing 
up  in  bed,  exclaimed — 

"  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  ?  Has  the  Major  got 
another  fit  of  mania-a-potu  on  him  ?"  Then,  as  all  a^ain 
was  quiet,  he  rubbed  his  eyes  and  said,  laughing.  "  1  do  be 
lieve  I  have  been  talking  in  my  sleep  !  I  dreamed  we 
in  our  mess,  and  the  Major  was  drunk  again." 

"  A  part  of  your  dream  was  real.     The  old  auan 
»tairs  has  a  fit  of  mmia-a-potu  upon  him. 


89  THE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

"  What !  and  you  staying  here !  I  must  go  down  and 
help  the  girl." 

"  You  had  better  not  as  yet.  She  seems  to  have  the  pow 
er  of  soothing  him.  Your  presence  might,  by  exasperating 
him,  do  more  harm  than  good." 

At  this  moment  another  outbreak  of  fury  from  the  mad- 
inan  caused  Frank  to  spring  to  his  feet,  and,  exclaiming — 

"  I  can't  let  that  maniac  tear  my  dear  little  hostess  to 
pieces — "  rush  to  the  head  of  the  ladder. 

"  I  tell  you  you  had  best  not  intrude — his  mania  seems 
perfectly  harmless  to  the  child." 

But  Frank  was  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  where,  however, 
an  impediment  met  him.  The  girl,  who  had  just  succeeded 
in  again  soothing  the  madman,  came  and  stood  before  him, 
,  "  Pray  do  not  come  in,  sir,  just  yet." 

"  But,  my  good  girl,  I  must  come  in  and  remain  to  protect 
you,"  gently  trying  to  pass  her.  She  stood  her  ground 
firmly  ;  her  lips  said — 

"  I  am  not  in  any  danger.  I  beg  you,  sir,  do  not  come  in 
yet ;"  but  her  steady  and  rather  threatening  glance  said — 
"  Do  not  dare  to  look  upon  the  old  man  in  his  \jegradation  !" 

Frank  turned  back,  and  went  and  perched  himself  at  the 
top  of  the  ladder  to  watch  over  the  safety  of  the  girl,  and 
be  ready  in  case  of  exigency. 

He  saw  the  old  man  lying,  clutching  the  cover  around  him, 
while  his  terror-dilated  eyes  glared  out  like  a  wild  beast's 
from  its  lair — all  ready  for  another  start  and  spring !  He 
saw  the  girl  mix  a  mug  of  strong  vinegar  and  water,  and 
take  it  to  him,  and  the  old  man  grasp  and  quaff  it  with  fiery 
thirst ;  three  times  she  filled  the  mug,  and  three  times  he 
gulphed  its  contents  with  voracity.  Then  she  laid  his  aged 
head  tenderly  down,  and  went  and  saturated  a  cloth  with 
vinegar,  and  placed  it  about  his  burning  forehead  and  tem 
ples.  Next  she  took  a  rustic  fan  of  turkey  feathers  and 
gtood  by  him  and  fanned  him  until  he  fell  into  a  sleep,  that 
every  moment  became  deeper  and  deeper.  Finally  she  gently 
laid  down  the  fan,  sunk  upon  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  and 
bowed  her  head  upon  her  clasped  hands  in  silent  prayer. 
At  last  she  arose,  pressed  a  light  kiss  upon  the  furrowed 
brow  of  the  sleeper,  and  silently  went  about  her  household 
work. 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  33 

From  a  shed  at  the  back  of  the  house  she  brought  wood 
and  wator,  made  up  the  fire,  filled  and  hung  on  the  tea 
kettle,  set  an  oven  and  oven-lid  to  heat,  and  again  disap 
peared  through  the  back  door  into  the  shed.  In  about 
fifteen  minutes  she  returned  with  a  tray  of  dough  arid  a  pan 
of  venison  steaks.  She  made  her  dough  into  a  loaf  and  put 
it  in  the  oven  to  bake,  and  prepared  her  venison  steaks  to 
lay  upon  the  coals.  She  set  her  table  with  milk  and  cream, 
and  butter,  brought  in,  doubtless  from  a  rude,  but  cool 
spring-house,  near  at  hand. 

When  all  was  done,  she  sat  down  to  knit,  seeming  to  wait 
the  coming  of  another — for  she  often  paused  and  listened 
with  her  head  turned  towards  the  door,  and  at  length  got  up 
and  drew  from  under  the  bed  a  trunk,  whence  she  took  an 
old,  well-patched  but  clean  suit  of  homespun  clothes,  with  a 
shirt  and  a  pair  of  socks,  and  hung  them  over  a  chair. 

Soon  after  a  step  was  heard  without — the  door  was  thrown 
open,  and  a  thin,  dark  young  man,  dressed  as  a  farm  laborer, 
entered.  Throwing  his  coarse  hat  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  he  approached  the  fire,  when  seeing  the  situation  of 
the  old  man  he  stopped  short,  and  placing  his  arms  a-kimbo, 
gazed  on  him,  exclaiming — 

"Drunk  again,  by !"  and  then  turned,  with  an 

interrogative  look,  towards  the  girl. 

A  short  wave  of  the  hand — a  quick,  distressful  nod,  and 
the  choking  down  of  a  sob,  told  him  that  it  was  so. 

The  young  man  let  down  his  arms,  and  with  a  frown  of 
mingled  sorrow  and  anger  approached  and  gazed  upon  the, 
sleeper. 

"  Have  you  had  much  trouble  with  him,  dear  Kate  v' 

The  same  choking  sob  and  quick  nod  answered  him. 

"  Where  DID  he  get  the  liquor  ?  What  has  he  laid  hi* 
hands  on  and  sold  now — any  of  my  books  ?" 

"  No !  nc ! — it  was  my  bonnet — but  never  mind,  I  can 
wear  your  old  hat,  you  know ! — it  doesn't  matter  for  me  !" 

"Well,  now,  by  all  that's—" 

"  Hush,  hush,  Carl !  Don't  swear — he  is  our  grandfather 
you  know ;  and  besides,"  she  added,  suddenly  dropping  hei 
Toice,  "  there  are  strangers  up  stairs." 

"  Strangers  !     What  strangers  ?" 

"  Two  gentlemen  who  came  in  here  out  of  the  sto:  m.5> 


THE      ifc  Oil  &  ?  JUlf      HUT. 

"  Umpli !"  said  the  young  man,  dropping  himself  into  tha 
arm-chai  \  and  foiling  into  deep  thought,  from  -which  he  was 
aroused  by  the  voice  of  Kate,  saying — 

"  Carl,  don't  sit  down  in  your  wet  clothes  ;  take  those  on 
the  chair,  and  go  in  the  shed  and  put  them  on.  And  make 
haste,  please,  Carl,  because  supper  is  nearly  ready,  and  the 
gentlemen  up  stairs  must  be  hungry." 

The  young  man  arose,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  saying — 

"  I'll  only  change  my  jacket,  that  I  can  do  here.  Oh  i 
Kate !"  he  continued,  as  he  divested  himself  of  his  wet  jacket, 
and  drew  on  the  other — "  Oh  !  Kate !  what  between  one  thing 
and  another  this  is  no  home  for  you  !  Indeed,  indeed,  every 
morning  I  go  away  from  you  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  all  day 
long  I  can  hardly  work  for  the  dread  that's  on  my  mind 
about  you.  If  I  could  only  find  a  place  for  you  to  wait  on 
Borne  lady,  or  to  nurse  a  baby — but,  Lord !  what  witli  the 
niggers  there  is  never  a  place  to  be  got  here  for  a  poor  white 
girh" 

"  Oh,  Carl,  if  you  could  get  me  the  best  place  in  the  world 
—even  a  place  to  sew — I  wouldn't  leave  him.  Why,  Carl,  it 
flrould  break  his  heart.  He  would  grieve  himself  to  death!" 

u  And  better  for  him  that  he  should  be  dead !  And  better 
for  you  and  all  concerned  !" 

"  Oh,  don't  say  so,  Carl !  Don't  say  so  !  Come  and  look 
at  him,  and  let  the  sight  soften  your  heart  to  him,"  said  the 
girl,  taking  the  youth's  hand,  and  drawing  him  to  the  bed 
side.  "  Look,  now,  at  that  poor  old  wrinkled  face — it  has 
not  got  very  long  to  live,  anyhow — and  see  the  two  or  three 
thin,  white  hairs  on  his  temples — and  see  the  poor,  poor 
withered  hands — so  helpless  !  Oh  !  I  think  it  is  all  so  piti 
ful.  And  now  see,  he  is  asleep,  but  how  much  trouble  there 
is  on  his  poor  old  face — no,  no !  don't  say  hard  things  of 
him,  it  cuts  me  to  the  heart !  And,  Carl,  no  matter  how  bad 
his  fit  may  be,  he  never  offers  to  hurt  me  or  anything  else. 
Only  terror  and  horror  is  all  that  is  on  him  !  He  is  a  gentle. 
harmless,  poor  old  man.  And  I  always  pity  him  like  I  pity 
any  one  very  ill." 

"  Kate !  I  dare  say  you  think  this  is  all  tender-heartedness, 
and  you  give  yourself  a  great  deal  of  credit  for  it !  But  I 
tell  you  it's  nothing  but  weakness.  And  it  may  be  the  ruin 
of  you,  too,  Irefore  long,  &.nd  now  I  tell  you,  I'm  going  *• 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT. 


3o 


get  a  place  for  you,  if  I  can.  Yes,  and  make  you  go  to  it,  tor) 
I  can  do  without  you — that  is,  I  must  do  without  you  !  1 
can  get  tho  breakfast  before  T  go  away  in  the  morning.  And 
I  can  leave  something  for  the  old  man's  dinner,  and  coins 
home  time  enough  in  the  evening  to  get  his  supper !  And 
to-morrow  I  am  going  down  to  the  turnpike  gate  to  thrasb 
Scroggings,  and  bring  your  bonnet  home.  And  I'll  tell  him 
if  ever  he  lets  the  old  man  have  any  more  liquor,  I'll  kick 
him  round  his  groggery  till  he  hasn't  got  a  whole  bone  left  in 
his  body.  Yes,  and  I'll  do  it,  too !" 

Kate  was  placing  the  supper  on  the  table,  but  she  turned, 
with  the  same  expression  of  countenance  with  which  she  had 
stopped  Fairfax  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and  said — 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  for  any  violence  from  you,  Carl. 
But  of  one  thing  be  sure — do  what  you  may,  I  will  never, 
never  leave  our  grandfather  !" 

"  There  !  now,  whenever  you  get  that  hateful  Maria  Theresa  > 
gook,  I  hate  you,  Katterin  !  I  hate  to  see  strength  in  wo-  < > 
jnen  !  It  don't  belong  to  them,  nor  grace  them,  any  hew !" 

"  Strength  of  affection  does,  Carl.  But  now  please  call 
the  gentlemen  down  to  supper,"  said  Kate. 

Carl  rapped  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and  summoned  the 
travellers  accordingly. 

Now,  though  Fairfax  had  honorably  withdrawn  from  the 
trap-door,  the  moment  he  found  that  his  services  would  not 
be  required,  and  that  the  conversation  between  Kate  and 
Carl  was  growing  confidential,  yet  every  word  of  that  conver 
sation  had  been  distinctly  heard  by  both  young  men,  and  had 
produced  an  effect  upon  both.  Frank  with  difficulty  withheld 
himself  from  exclaiming  aloud,  as  pity,  dissrust,  anger  or  ap 
probation  moved  him  in  turn.  Captain  Clifton,  far  less  im 
pressible,  and  more  reserved  than  his  companion,  had  re 
mained  perfectly  quiet  and  silent,  though  his  thoughts  were 
more  practically  busy  with  the  case  than  those  of  his  com 
panion.  They  went  down,  and  were  received  at  the  foot  of 
the  ladder  by  Carl,  who,  with  a  sort  of  rough  politeness, 
placed  stools  at  the  table,  and  invited  them  to  be  seated. 
They  placed  themselves  at  the  board,  at  the  head  of  which 
Kate  already  presided,  with  folded  hands  and  downcast  eyes. 
Then  to  their  utter  astonishment,  the  rude,  irreverent  young 
mau,  Cail,  stood  up  and  asked  a  blessing,  saying,  afterwards. 


36  THE      MOUNTAIN       HUT. 

that  he  was  no  parson,  nor  no  Methodist,  but  Kate  would 
have  it  so,  and  he  thought  it  was  best  upon  the  whole,  not  to 
oppose  females  in  such  notions.  And  then  he  began  to  wait 
upon  his  guests. 

Their  supper  consisted  of  good  coffee,  with  cream  and  ma 
ple  sugar ;  good  bread,  with  fresh  butter  and  cheese ;  venisop 
etyak  and  broiled  chickens ;  and  lastly,  of  a  dish  of  baked 
pears,  cold,  and  a  pitcher  of  milk.  Frank  was  surprised  to 
find  such  excellence  of  fare  amid  the  ragged  poverty  of  the 
mountain  cabin ;  but,  on  afterwards  expressing  this  surprise 
to  Captain  Clifton,  he  was  told  by  the  latter,  that  such  con 
trasts  were  by  no  means  rare.  Mr.  Fairfax  applied  himself 
with  zeal  to  the  good  things  before  him,  until  the  sharpness 
of  his  appetite  was  sated,  and  then  lingered  long  over  the 
meal,  conversing  with  his  host  upon  the  state  of  the  country 
in  his  region,  the  climate  and  soil,  productions,  market,  etc., 
and  receiving  from  the  young  mountaineer  the  information 
that  there  was  no  great  amount  of  produce  about  there,  ex 
cept  in  the  glens,  grazing  for  the  cattle,  and  that  the  roads 
were  so  bad,  and  the  towns  and  villages  so  distant,  that  no 
thing  was  raised  for  market,  except  such  kind  of  produce  as 
could  walk  thither,  to  wit:  flocks  and  herds.  That  his 
grandfather,  before  the  infirmities  of  age  had  come  upon  him, 
had  raised  herds  of  kine  and  hogs,  which  he  drove  fifty  miles 
to  market  every  year ;  but  that  was  some  years  ago,  when  he 
himself  was  a  child.  That  now  they  only  had  a  few  sheep, 
which  his  sister  tended  while  he  was  at  work  on  a  plantation 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  In  reply  to  a  question  Frank 
put  while  leisurely  using  his  gold  tooth-pick,  the  young  man 
informed  him  farther  that  himself  and  his  sister  were  of  Ger 
man  and  Irish  descent.  That  the  old  man,  their  grandfather, 
was  a  German  by  birth,  but  had  lived  nearly  seventy  years 
in  America.  That  his  name  was  Carl  Wetzel,  and  his  only 
daughter,  Caterina,  had  been  married  to  an  Irish  emigrant, 
of  the  name  of  Kavanagh.  That  they  were  the  parents  of 
himself  and  sister.  Finally,  that  they  had  been  dead  nearly 
seven  years.  It  was  farther  ascertained  that  old  Carl  Wei- 
eel  had  been  a  man  of  considerable  education ;  and  it  was 
s-  easily  seen  that  Carl  Kavanagh  had  inherited  much  of  his 
father's  Irish  quickness  of  intelligence,  and  much  of  hia 
erandfather's  German  love  of  knowledge. 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT  37 

Frank,  on  his  part,  was  equally  communicative,  and,  in 
spite  of  the  haughty  reserve  of  Captain  Clifton,  informed  hu 
host  that  he  had  come  up  in  that  neighborhood  for  the  pur 
pose  of  acting  as  groomsman  at  the  approaching  marriage  of 

his  friend,  Captain   31ifton,  of  the Regiment  of  <V- 

ralry,  to  his  cousin,  Miss  Carolyn  Gower  Clifton,  of  Clifton 
Place.  That  their  journey,  so  far,  had  been  rather  disas 
trous  ;  that  they  had  set  out  from  Washington  City  on  horse 
back,  but  had  become  so  fatigued  by  the  excessive  heat,  that 
they  had  been  obliged,  on  arriving  at  Winchester,  to  take 
places  for  themselves  in  the  stage  for  Staunton,  and  to  hiro 
a  man  to  bring  their  horses  after  them — riding  one  and  lead 
ing  the  other,  and  so  alternately.  That  before  reaching 
Staunton,  they  had  been  thrown  from  the  stage — without 
serious  injury  to  themselves,  however,  and  had  been  obliged 
to  walk  some  ten  miles  to  a  village  on  their  route,  and  \vait 
the  arrival  of  their  horses,  which,  fortunately,  were  not 
many  hours  behind  them.  That  they  had  ridden  all  day  in 
a  thick  fog,  lost  their  way,  cama  near  going  over  a  fearful 
precipice,  and  finally  got  caught  in  the  tempest  that  drove 
them  for  shelter  to  the  cabin. 

During  all  this  time,  Captain  Clifton  had  seemed  loat  in 
thought,  and  only  once  spoke  to  inquire  of  the  young  moun 
taineer  whether  it  were  possible  for  them  to  pursue  their 
journey  that  night.  To  this  the  young  man  replied  that  it 
would  be  impossible,  even  if  it  were  then  daylight,  inasmuch 
as  the  torrents  were  swollen  so  greatly.  And  at  the  though 
of  pursuing  their  journey,  a  pang  of  remorse  for  his  for- 
getfulness  of  his  horses  shot  through  the  breast  of  Frank, 
and — 

"  What  the  devil  can  have  become  of  Saladin  ?"  he  ex 
claimed,  starting  up. 

"Oh,  he  is  safe,"  answered  Clifton.  "I  saw  them 
both  in  the  shed  as  I  looked  from  the  little  window  up 
stairs.' 

«  Who  put  them  there  ?" 

"  I  tended  them,"  answered  the  girl,  quietlj. 

They  all  now  arose  from  the  table.  The  girl  cleared  the 
loard,  and  carried  all  the  things  out  to  wash  up.  Carl 
begged  his  guests  to  excuse  him,  and  went  out  to  gire  the 
horses  a  rub  down  and  another  feed. 


SS  THE      MOUNTAIN       HUT. 

Captain  Clifton  threw  himself  into  the  arm-chair,  crossed 
his  legs,  took  out  his  tablets,  and  began  to  make  memoran 
dums. 

Frank  impertinently  peeped  over  his  shoulder  and  read — 
u  Mem.  Ask  my  mother  if  she  can  take  a  little  girl  as  a 
companion."  Clifton  closed  the  book  instantly,  in  silent 
rebuke  of  Frank's  impudence.  And  Frank  himself  walked 
about  fidgety  and  unhappy  for  not  knowing  what  to  do  with 
himself,  until,  at  a  restless  movement  of  the  old  man,  he  went 
and  poured  out  a  mug  of  water,  and  carefully  keeping  be 
hind  the  eye  of  the  patient,  lifted  up  his  head  and  gave  him 
drink,  and  after  setting  down  the  empty  mug,  fanned  him  till 
he  went  sound  asleep  again. 

The  brother  and  sister  soon  returned.  Carl  sat  down  and 
begun  his  best  efforts  at  entertainment.  But  Frank,  who 
amused  himself  by  seeing  everything,  saw  Kate  go  up  stairs 
into  the  loft  and  bring  down  and  carry  out  his  own  and  his 
friend's  regimentals. 

After  which  she  came  in,  and  drawing  a  stool  to  the  table, 
sat  down  and  began  to  knit,  as  quietly,  as  silently,  as  if  no 
strangers  were  in  her  hut. 

Carl  took  down  and  laid  upon  the  table  a  rough  draught 
board,  and  invited  his  guests  to  play  with  each  other. 

Frank  eagerly  caught  at  the  opportunity,  but  Captain 
Clifton  declined,  on  the  plea  of  distaste  to  the  amuse 
ment. 

"  Play  with  me,  my  dear  fellow,  for  pity  sake,"  said 
Frank  to  Carl,  "  and  don't  mind  my  friend  there  !  You  see, 
he  doesn't  want  to  play,  neither  does  he  want  to  talk,  nor  to 
do  anything  but  sit  and  think  about  Miss  Clifton." 

*'  Do  play  with  him,  and  keep  him  quiet,  if  you  can,  my 
good  youth,"  said  Captain  Clifton,  turning  his  chair  slightly 
aside  from  the  table,  so  that  his  face  was  in  the  shade.  Op 
posite  to  him,  at  the  other  corner  of  the  table,  sat  Katherine, 
with  the  light  shining  full  upon  her  face  and  head,  as  sho 
bowed  it  over  her  work.  Captain  Clifton  did  not  fall  into  a 
brown  study,  he  fell  into  a  study  of  the  brown  girl.  Let  no 
one  presume  to  misinterpret  him.  I'j  was  not  likely  that  a 
man  of  twenty-five  should  fall  in  bve  with  a  girl  of  four 
teen.  Dotards  do  such  things,  not  men.  Then  it  was 
utterly  preposterous  to  suppose  that  Archer  Clifton,  of 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  39 

Clifton,  Captain  in  the  — —  Regiment  of  Cavalry,  the  fasti 
dious  amateur  in  female  beauty,  should  be  smitten  with  a 
hard-featured,  sun-burned  girl,  in  a  coarse,  homespun  frock  / 
that  the  all-accomplished  scholar  should  be  charmed  with 
the  little  ignoramus  ;  that  the  arrogant  conservative  of  rank 
sli3uld  condescend  to  a  low-born  mountaineer  ;  or  that  the 
expectant  bridegroom  of  the  beautiful  and  haughty  Carolyn 
Clifton,  of  Clifton,  should  wish  to  marry  a  girl  who  united 
all  these  repulsive  qualities  of  ignorance,  ruggedness,  and 
low-birth.  Yet  if  he  could  have  looked  only  two  short  years 
into  the  future ! 

But  Clifton  was  a  physiognomist,  and  liked  to  study  a 
novel  individuality.  A  new  and  very  curious  subject  was 
before  him  now.  At  first  he  had  seen  in  Kate  nothing  more 
than  a  coarse-featured,  dark-skinned  country  girl.  Now,  ay 
he  sat  and  watched  her  at  her  quiet  work,  with  her  counte 
nance  in  the  repose  of  thoughtfulness,  he  saw  that  her  fea 
tures,  though  certainly  not  beautiful  or  classical,  were  even 
of  a  higher  order  of  physiognomy,  combhiing  the  rarest 
elements  of  power  and  goodness.  The  broad  and  massive; 
forehead,  straight  nose,  and  square,  firm  jaws,  were  the  strong 
and  ugly  features — the  rugged  frame  work,  as  it  were,  of  her 
countenance,  and  indicated  great  force  of  character.  But 
her  hair,  eyes,  and  lips  were  beautiful.  Her  hair,  of  rich 
dark  brown,  with  golden  lights,  rippled  around  her  forehead, 
shading  and  softening  its  stern  strength.  Her  eyes,  large 
and  shadowy,  with  drooping  lashes,  and  her  lips  sweetly 
curved,  full,  and  pensively  closed,  suggested  a  profound  depth 
)f  tenderness.  Indeed  the  brooding  brow,  the  downcast  eyes, 
and  the  compressed  lips  seemed  to  be  habitual  with  her,  and 
gave  her  countenance  an  expression  of  grief  and  care  beyond 
her  years,  and  of  thought  and  intellect  above  her  station.  As 
Clifton  sat  and  studied  her,  he  thought — not  of 

"Full  many  a  flower  that's  born  to  blush  tinsecn, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air," 

for  the  girl  did  not  resemble  a  flower  so  much  as  a  hardy, 
pine  sapling  of  her  native  mountains.  No ;  that  look,  strength, 
intellect,  and  self-balance — in  a  word — that  look  of  POWER, 
suggested  rather — girl  as  she  was — 


40  TTTE      MOUNTAIN      HUT. 

"Some  village  Hampden  wiih  undaunted  breast, 

***** 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton,         *  *  * 

Seme  CROMWELL  guiltless  ot'his  country's  blood." 

It  was  a  Maria-Theresa  face  without  the  wickedness. 

Captain  Clifton's  physiognomical  studies  were  interrupted 
by  the  abrupt  starting  of  Frank,  who  exclaimed  vehe 
mently — 

"  Beaten  in  four  games !  Now,  that's  what  I  call  out- 
rageous !  Don't  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,  that  there  art 
three  persons  in  the  world  who  should  never  be  beaten — a 
guest,  a  woman,  and  a  monarch  ?" 

Carl  laughed  and  chuckled,  and  beating  the  draught-board 
tamborine-like  above  his  head  in  triumph,  carried  it  off  and 
put  it  away. 

The  whole  party  then  arose  to  retire.  Carl  took  tht 
eandle  and  showed  his  guests  up  into  the  loft  and  left  them 
to  repose. 

"  Now  where  will  that  child  sleep,  for  we  have  got  her 
room  ?"  asked  Frank,  with  concern,  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone. 

"Oh-h!"  replied  Captain  Clifton,  indifferently,  "any 
where — on  a  pallet — perhaps,  down  stairs." 

"  But  the  old  man  and  the  young  one — " 

"  Oh-h !"  again  drawled  Clifton,  in  a  bored  tone,  "if  you 
expect  to  meet  with  refinement  among  the  mountain  people, 
you  will  be  disappointed." 

Long  after  the  travellers  had  laid  down  to  rest,  they  heard 
the  sound  of  footsteps  moving  about  in  the  room  below. 
They  moved  quietly  and  cautiously,  as  if  fearful  of  disturb 
ing  the  guests ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  all  sounds,  even  the 
]o\vcst,  could  be  distinctly  heard  through  that  shell  of  a 
house. 

On  awaking  the  next  morning,  the  young  men  found  their 
own  clothes  well  cleaned,  dried,  and  pressed,  ready  for  them 
to  put  on. 

"  Ah,  ha  !"  said  the  sagacious  Frank,  "  that  is  what  the 
poor  girl  was  at  work  at  so  late  last  night." 

On  going  down  stairs  they  found  the  lower  room  neatly 
arranged,  and  breakfast  ready  for  them — hot  coffee,  com 
oone,  b  ^t  rolls,  va&hers  of  fried  bacon,  eggs,  potatoes,  eta 


THE     MOUNTAIN     HUT.  41 

And  there,  in  the  arm-chair,  in  a  clean  homespun  suit,  sat 
the  old  man,  looking  as  calm,  as  self-possessed,  as  noble  and 
venerable  as  a  Roman  senator.  He  arose  and  bowed  to  the 
gentlemen,  and  offered  his  chair  to  one  of  them. 

No  wonder  it  bowed  the  young  girl's  head  with  grief  and 
jhanie — it  pained  and  humbled  even  these  strangers,  to  know 
that  this  most  reverened  white-haired  patriarch  was  often 
transformed  by  drunkenness  into  the  beast !  It  was  a  dis 
ease,  Kate  had  often  said,  wringing  her  hands  with  anguish, 
while  seeing  his  degradation. 

It  was  a  disease,  and  never  till  vice  is  treated  as  such,  will 
an  effectual  remedy  be  applied. 

Immediately  after  breakfast,  the  gentlemen  took  leave  of 
the  family,  and  mounted  their  horses  to  pursue  their  journey. 
Frank,  in  the  thoughtless  kindness  of  his  heart,  would  have 
offered  the  poor  people  some  remuneration  for  their  enter 
tainment,  but  Clifton,  who  knew  the  habits  and  feelings  of 
the  mountaineers  better,  arrested  a  purpose  that  might  have 
given  offence.  But  on  parting  with  Carl  Kavanagh,  Captain 
Clifton  expressed  his  thanks  for  the  hospitality  that  had  been 
extended  to  himself  and  friend — adding,  that  if  he  could 
then,  or  at  any  time,  in  any  manner,  be  of  use  to  his  kind 
host,  he  should  be  happy  to  serve  him,  etc.,  etc.  To  this  the 
young  man  replied — 

"  I  thank  you,  sir.  I  know  Captain  Clifton  by  report,  and 
feel  that  1  can  trust  to  his  generosity.  I  have  a  heavy  care 
— my  young  sister.  If  you  could  hear  of  a  place  at  service 
for  her  among  the  honorable  ladies  of  your  family  or  acquain 
tance,  I  should  feel  very  grateful  indeed,  sir." 

Captain  Clifton  kindly  gave  his  promise  to  make  inquiries. 
Frank  again  shook  hands  with  Carl,  bowed  to  Kate,  nodded 
to  the  old  man  through  the  window,  and  then  the  travellers 
tinned  from  the  door  of  the  mountain  hut,  cantered  Irisklj 
op  the  glen,  and  took  the  road  to  WHITE  CLIFFS. 


42  CLIFTON       AND       THE       BEAUTIES. 

CHAPTER  II. 

CLIFTON  AND  THE   BEAUTIES. 

"  Against  the  cliffs 

See'st  ttoti  not  where  the  mansion  stands  ?     The  mooi.beam 
Strikes  or.  the  granite  column,  and  tall  trees 
Group  shadowy  round  it." — ANONYMOUS. 

A  most  portentous  trial  waits  thee  now — 

Woman's  bright  eyes  and  dazzling  snowy  brow. — MOORB 

THE  torrents  had  been  so  terribly  swollen  and  overflowed, 
and  the  roads  so  dreadfully  washed  and  guttered  by  the  tem 
pest  and  flood  of  the  preceding  evening,  that  the  travellers 
found  the  greatest  difficulty  in  pursuing  their  journey,  often 
having  to  turn  back  miles  on  this  road  to  take  another  way, 
And  often  being  obliged  to  search  leagues  up  and  down  the 
course  of  a  river,  to  find  a  practicable  ford. 

Therefore  it  was  near  night-fall  when  they  crossed  the  last 
range  of  forest-crowned  mountains,  and  descended  into  the 
wooded  valley  that  lay  between  them  and  White  Cliffs.  A 
winding  road  through  the  woods  brought  them  to  the  house. 
The  full  moon  was  rising  East  of  the  cliffs,  and  casting  their 
shadow  back  across  the  house  and  lawn.  The  mansion  wra& 
a  lofty  edifice  of  white  stone,  with  terraced  roof,  and  many 
irregular,  projecting  wings.  The  tall  trees  surrounding  tho 
buildings,  the  lofty  cliffs  rising  behind  them,  the  dark  shadow 
falling  on  all ;  the  hour,  the  silence,  and  the  solitude,  gave 
an  air  of  refreshing  coolness  and  deep  repose  to  the  scene. 
On  turning  an  angle  of  the  building,  they  saw  the  drawing- 
room  windows  open,  and  the  light  from  them  gleaming  out 
cheerfully  across  that  part  of  the  lawn.  At  that  moment  a 
servant,  waiting  at  the  hall  door,  came  down  to  take  their 
horses. 

"  All  well  at  home,  Dandy  ?"  inquired  Captain  Clifton, 
he  dismounted,  and  threw  him  the  reins. 

«<  Sarvint,  sir  All  v  ^ry  well,"  replied  the  man.  touching 
his 


CMFTON      AND      THE    BEAUTlEb-  43 

Captain  Clifton  led  the  way  up  into  the  hall  adjoining  tho 
drawing  room,  where  they  were  met  by  an  old  gentleman, 
who  seized  both  of  Clifton's  hands,  and  shook  them  slowly 
and  cordially,  as  he  said,  dropping  each  word  separately, 
with  a  hearty,  luscious  emphasis — 

"  Why — my — dear — boy — how  glad  I  am — to  see  you!" 

<:  And  I  am  very  happy  to  be  with  you,  sir ;  and  to  find 
you  looking  so  well.  Allow  me  to  introduce  to  your  ac 
quaintance — Lieutenant  Fairfax,  of  my  company,"  said  Cap 
tain  Clifton,  presenting  his  friend. 

"  Glad  to  see  him  !  Glad  to  see  Mr.  Fairfax  !  G  lad  to 
welcome  any  friend  of  my  nephew's  to  Clifton.  How  do  you 
do,  sir  ?  Knew  your  relative,  Lord  Fairfax,  of  Greenway 
Courthouse.  Excessively  fond  of  hunting.  Kept  bachelor's 
hall.  Very  great  mistake,  that — very !  Hope  you  won't 
follow  his  example !  Fine  man,  however,  and  I  honor  hi.* 
memory  !  Come  in,  sir !  come  in  !  Come  in,  Archy  !  M) 
— dear — boy — I'm — so — del — ighted  to  see  you  !" 

Whenever  he  spoke  to  his  nephew,  he  seemed  to  dwell 
upon  each  separate  syllable  with  a  cordiality  impossible  to 
describe. 

He  was  a  large,  old  gentleman,  clothed  in  a  fresh,  fragrant 
suit  of  pale  blue  linen,  with  his  hair  as  white  as  cotton,  his 
fresh,  rosy  complexion,  fine  teeth,  and  clear,  kind,  blue  eyes, 
making  a  most  refreshing  picture  of  simplicity,  cheerfulness, 
and  cleanliness  of  soul  and  body  in  old  age.  He  was  of  a 
sanguine  temperament,  and  under  great  provocation,  could 
get  into  a  passion,  too.  And  what  old  father  of  a  family, 
with  two  grown  daughters,  and  a  young  wife,  all  under 
eighteen  years  of  age,  and  all  beauties,  has  not  enough  com 
bustible  material  to  burn  the  house  down,  or  set  his  own  tem 
per  on  fire  ? — yet  such  was  the  kindness  of  his  heart,  that 
even  when  in  violent  anger,  stamping  up  and  down  the  floor, 
grasping  desperately  at  his  own  white  temple  locks  with  both 
hands,  and  vociferating  in  stentorian  tones — it  was  all,  as 
Frank  afterwards  said,  shooting  with  blank  cartridges — he 
never  said  a  word,  or  did  a  thing,  to  wound  a  single  soui. 

"  I  trust  the  ladies  are  all  well,  sir,"  said  Captain  Clifton, 
ts  he  followed  hl>  uncle. 

"Yes—yes — that  is  to  say,  Carry  is  well,  but  not  well 
plea.**d  She  expected  you  yesterday- -didn't  consider  th« 


44  CLIFTON      AND      THE      BEAUTIES. 

Btorm  any  excuse  for  your  absence.  Ah  !  you  dog — you  sad 
dog — at  your  age  would  /  have  kept  a  lady  waiting  ?  Nay, 
would  I  do  it  now  ?  But  come,  shall  I  present  you  to  the 
ladies  now,  or  do  you  prefer  first  the  refreshment  of  the  bath 
and  a  change  of  dress  ?  Your  own  and  your  friend's  bag" 
gage  arrived  this  morning  by  the  wagon,  and  has  been  con 
veyed  to  your  rooms." 

"  Oh,  a  change  of  dress,  by  all  means  !"  suggested  Frank. 

"  Dandy — DANDY  !"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  raising 
his  strong7  voice,  till  the  servant  appeared,  "show  Mr. 
Fairfax  to  General  Washington's  room." 

General  Washington  had  slept  one  night  at  Clifton,  and 
from  that  time  to  this,  the  room  he  occupied  has  been 
"  General  Washington's  room." 

The  servant  conducted  Mr.  Fairfax  up  stairs.  And  then 
the  old  gentleman,  turning  to  his  nephew,  took  his  hands 
again,  and  said — 

"  My  dear  boy,  once  more  I  must  say,  I'm — so — glad — to 
—see  you !  You  are  at  home,  you  know.  So  go  and  find 
your  room,  and  ring  and  give  your  orders,  my  son,  for  you 
are  so.  And  I  will  go  and  let  the  ladies  know  that  you  have 
come,  though  I  date  say  they  know  it  already." 

And  shaking  his  hands,  he  let  them  go  and  turned  slowly 
away. 

Half  an  hour  sufficed  the  young  gentlemen  to  make  them 
selves  presentable.  At  the  end  of  which  time  they  descended 
the  stairs,  and  were  met  in  the  hall  by  old  Mr.  Clifton,  who 
ushered  them  into  the  drawing-room. 

This  apartment  was  a  most  delightful  summer  room.  Il 
was  very  spacious,  occupying  the  whole  first  floor  of  one 
of  those  irregular  wings  of  the  house.  The  ceiling  was  lofty, 
the  walls  were  covered  with  pearl  white  paper,  and  the  floor 
of  white  oak  was  waxed  and  polished  to  an  ivory  smooth 
ness.  On  three  sides  were  tall  windows,  reaching  to  the 
floor,  and  opening  out  upon  the  piazza  or  the  lawn,  and 
draped  with  snowy,  flowing  curtains.  On  the  fourth  side 
was  the  open  fire-place,  whitened  inside,  and  having  on  its 
ovirble  hearth  an  alabaster  vase  of  lilies,  whose  fragrance 
C.led  the  air.  The  walls  were  adorned  with  tall  mirrors,  and 
with  choice  paintings,  all  of  a  cool,  refrigerating  character, 
«uch  as :  An  Alpine  Scene,  A  Green  Forest  Glade,  with 


CLIFTON     AND     THE     BEAUTIES.  45 

Deer  Reposing,  A  Mountain  Lake,  A  Shaded  Pond,  witb 
Coa-s,  A  Farm  Yard  in  a  Snow  Storm,  etc.  A  piano  stood 
at.  the  farthest  end  of  the  room.  A  harp  reclined  near  it. 
A  few  marble-topped  stands  and  tables,  scattered  over  wilb 
r;iu  prints,  books,  virtu,  bijouterie,  etc.,  stood  at  convenient 
jist:mcrs.  A  lady's  elegant  work-table,  with  its  costly  tri- 
fl»\s,  was  a  pleasing  feature  in  the  room.  Sofas,  ottomans, 
divans,  and  lounging  chairs,  "fitted  to  a  wish  for  study  or 
repose/'  were  everywhere  at  hand. 

IMi rough  the  open  windows  came  the  evening  wind,  laden 
cvith  the  fragrance  of  flowers,  the  murmur  of  falling  waters, 
the  whisper  of  leaves,  and  the  cherry  chirp  of  insects — 
those  night  songsters  who  begin  when  the  birds  go  to  sleep — 
nature's  vesper  choir.  While  from  the  open  windows  could 
be  darkly  seen  the  tall  shadowy  trees,  the  towering  white 
cliffs,  and,  in  the  distance,  a  bend  of  that  great  river  which 
took  its  rise  here,  arid  which  there  sleeping  among  the  dark 
green  hills,  with  the  moon  shining  full  upon  if,  seemed  a  re 
splendent  mountain  lake,  flashing  back  the  moonbeams  from 
its  bosom  in  rays  of  dazzling  light.  The  whole  effect  of 
the  room  and  the  scene  was  delightfully  cooling  and  re 
freshing. 

When  Mr.  Cliflon  conducted  his  guests  into  this  saloon. 
it  was  occupied  by  three  young  ladies,  who,  immediately  on 
their  entrance,  arose  to  receive  them  ;  and  whom,  in  present 
ing  his  visitors,  Mr.  Clifton  severally  named  as,  My  wife. 
Mrs.  Clifton, — my  daughter,  Miss  Clifton,  and  my  second 
daughter,  Zuleime.  Captain  Clifton,  in  turn,  saluted  his  aunt 
and  cousins.  Miss  Clifton,  his  betrothed,  received  him  with 
cold  hauteur. 

So,  these  were  the  beauties — and  beautiful,  passing  beau 
tiful,  they  were  indeed,  though  differing  from  each  other  in 
beauty,  a*  "  one  star  differs  from  another  in  glory."  But 
bt  me  describe  them.  _- 

Carolyn  Clifton  is  tall  and  elegantly  proportioned,  mid  \ 
ni   wes  with  high-bred  dignity.     Her  features  are  Grecian —  \ 
hr-r  complexion  is   d:izzlingly  fair,  save  when  the  pure  rich 
Mo-jd  man'  les  in  her  chosk,  and  crimsons  the  short  and  scorn 
ful  lip.     Her  eyes  arc   blue,  Mini   half  veiled   by  their  fair 
ladies,  as  in  disdain  of  aught  that  might  soek  their  ghr-ice. 
iJer  fair  h-iii  is  carried  up  from  her  forehead,  and  fails  in 
3 


46  CLTFTON      AND      THE      BEAUTIES' 

bright  tendril-like  curls  around  the  back  of  her  neck, 
ing  an  intellectual  and  queenly  grace  to  the  proud  head, 
The  costume  of  that  day  closely  resembled  the  prevailing 
mode  of  cur  own.  Miss  Clifton  wore  a  dress  of  pale  blue 
dlk,  made  low  in  the  neck,  with  a  long-waisted  stomacher, 
tight  sleeves  reaching  to  the  elbows,  and  ample  flowing  skirt. 
The  neck  was  trimmed  with  a  fall  of  deep  lace,  then  called 
a  "  tucker,"  and  answering  to  the  present  bert/ie.  The  tight 
half-sleeves  were  trimmed  at  the  elbows  by  deep  lace  ruffles, 
shading  the  arm.  A  necklace  of  large  strung  pearls  around 
her  throat,  a  bracelet  of  the  same  on  her  arm,  and  a  pearl- 
headed  pin  run  through  the  Grecian  knot  of  ringlets  at  the 
back  of  her  head,  completed  her  toilet.  She  carried  in  hei 
hand  and  toyed  carelessly  with  a  beautiful  fan  of  marabout 
feathers.  She  was  the  daughter  of  the  first  Mrs.  Clifton,  of 
Clifton,  a  fair,  proud  Maryland  lady,  one  of  the  haughty 
Gowers,  who  lived  long  enough  to  augment  by  precept  and 
example,  the  double  portion  of  family  arrogance  Carolyn 
Clifton  had  inherited  from  both  sides  of  her  house.  Miss 
Clifton  had  "  received  her  education  "  at  a  first-class  "  La 
dies'  Institute  "  at  Richmond. 

Zuleime,  the  younger  sister,  was  about  fourteen  years  of 
age,  but  well  grow»  and  full-formed  for  her  years.  She  was 
the  daughter  of  the  second  Mrs.  Clifton,  a  beautiful  West 
Indian  Creole,  who  died  in  giving  her  life.  She  had  the 
snowy  skin  and  damask  cheek  of  her  father's  fair  race, 
and  the  glittering  black  hair  and  sparkling  black  eyes  of  her 
Creole  mother.  Her  dress  was  of  plain  white  muslin,  with 
short  sleeves  and  low  neck,  and  coral  necklace,  which  well 
set  off  the  exceeding  brilliancy  of  her  complexion.  Zuleime 
was  home  for  the  mid-summer  holidays. 

Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Clifton,  Georgia  ! 

"  Yes,  she  is  indeed  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  whole 
world,"  exclaimed  Fairfax,  to  himself,  as  he  turned  from  the 
fair  and  dignified  Carolyn — the  brilliant  and  sparkling  Zu- 
l)ime,,to  the  dark  and  graceful  Georgia.  She  is  of  mediuu) 
height.  Her  complexion  is  a  rich,  dark,  uniform  olive,  her 
vory  cheeks  being  of  the  same  hue,  but  so  transparently  clear, 
that  that  which  would  mar  the  perfection  of  another  face, 
adds  deeper  beauty  to  hers.  Yes !  the  delicate  bloom  of 
the  fair  Carolyn,  and  the  bright  damask  blush  of  tho  liril- 


CLIFTON     AND     THE   BEAUTIES.  47 

liatit  Zuleimc,  seem  common-place  beside  the  perfect  beauty 
of  the  pure,  clear  olive  cheek  of  the  dark  Georgia.  Ilei 
hair  is  intensely  black,  with  depths  under  depths  of  dark 
ness,  lurking  in  the  labyrinths  of  irregular  curls  that  clnstci 
around,  and  throw  so  deep  a  shadow  over  her  witching  face. 
Her  eyebrows  are  black  and  arched.  Her  eyelashes  are  long, 
black,  and  drooping.  Her  eyes  are — pause — I  have  been  — , 
trying  to  think  of  something  to  which  her  wondrous  eyes 
may  be  compared,  for  darkness,  profundity  and  power.  Mid~ 
night  ?  No,  her  eyes  are  darker,  stiller,  and  more  solemn 
yet.  Thunder  clouds  ?  No,  for  her  eyes  are  more  stormy 
and  impending  still — and  their  electric  stroke  is  silent  as  it 
is  fatal.  In  short,  her  eyes  resemble  nothing  but  themselves. 
Her  dress  is  of  black  gauze,  over  black  silk,  made  high  to 
veil  her  neck,  and  finished  with  a  narrow  black  lace,  within 
which  gleams  around  her  throat  a  necklace  of  jet  and  gold. 
She  wears  no  other  jewelry.  A  large  black  lace  mantilla  is 
carelessly  thrown  over  all.  When  she  moves  her  every 
movement  is  undulating  grace — her  motion  might  be  set  to 
music.  And  when  she  sits  still  she  is  so  still,  and  dark,  and 
beautiful — and  somdhinv  e/se,  besides,  that  the  gazer  expe 
riences  something  like  th°  fascination  and  terror  one  feels  in 
looking  down  the  depths  of  a  dark  chasm. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  portrait  painter  in  Richmond, 
and  this  was  what  Captain  Archer  Clifton,  in  his  arrogance, 
called  humble  parentage.  Mr.  Clifton  had  met  her  under 
the  following  circumstances  :  On  finally  withdrawing  his  eld 
est  daughter  from  school,  he  wished,  before  carrying  her 
home,  to  have  her  portrait  taken,  and  went  for  that  purpose 
to  the  studio  of  Mr.  Fuller,  portrait  and  miniature  painter, 
where  he  chanced  to  see  her  for  the  first  time,  the  artist's 
beautiful  child,  Georgia.  He  took  so^trong  a  fancy  to  this 
bewitching  creature,  that  he  delayed  his  departure — prolong 
ing  his  stay  in  the  city  for  three  weeks,  at  the  end  of  which, 
besides  the  accomplished  Miss  Clifton,  with  her  elegant 
wardrobe,  splendid  jewels,  costly  presents,  and  finished  por 
trait—he  took  home  the  artist's  daughter  as  the  fourth  Mrs. 
Clifton,  of  Clifton  much  to  the  indignation  of  the  haughty 
Carolyn,  who  never  ceased  to  treat  her  beautiful  young  step-  / 
mother  with  scorn  and  contempt. 

Supj  er  was  announced,  and   the  old  gentleman,  rising. 


48  CLIFTON      AND       THE      BEAUTIES. 

requested  his  nephew  to  lead  in  his  wife,  while  ho  himself, 
took  the  arm  of  his  eldest  daughter,  and  left  Zuleime  to  Mr, 
Fairfax.  They  crossed  the  hall  and  entered  a  large  and 
pleasant  dining-room,  where  stood  an  elegant  table,  laid  with 
a  damask  table-cloth,  set  out  with  silver  plate,  and  Sevres 
porcelain,  and  laden  "  with  all  the  luxuries  of  the  season." 
Waiters  of  perfect  dress  and  at/dress  were  in  attendance. 

"  I  assure  you,  Miss  Zuleime,  that  contrast  is  all  the  sea 
soning  of  existenoe — and  this  is  a  high  seasoning.  For  yes 
terday  we  sat  down  to  eat  supper  ofl'  of  pewter  plates,  on  a 
bare  board,  in  a  mean  hut,  in  company  with  rude  moun 
taineers,  and  to-night  we  sit  at  the  elegant  tea-table  of 
Clifton,  surrounded  with  beautiful,  refined,  and  accomplished 
ladies,"  said  Frank,  as  he  handed  his  lively  companion  into 
her  chair,  and  took  the  seat  by  her  side. 

The  sprightly  Zuleime  laughed,  arid  said  she  doubted 
whether  he  would  find  more  substantial  or  savory  fare  here 
than  he  got  at  the  mountain-hut. 

After  all  were  seated,  and  all  served,  the  conversation 
became  general  and  vivacious — old  Mr.  Clifton  being  evi 
dently  "  the  life  of  the  company."  He  chatted,  jested, 
laughed,  told  anecdotes,  and  finally,  inspired  Frank,  who 
gave  a  laughable  description  of  their  adventures  on  the  Alle- 
ghanies  ;  of  being  upset  in  the  stage-coach,  and  pitched  into 
Wolf's  Lick  ;  of  being  lost  in  the  fog,  and  near  going  down 
the  Devil's  Staircase  ;  finally,  of  being  caught  in  the  tempest, 
and  shut  up  in  a  mountain-hut  with  a  raving  maniac.  At 
this  the  old  gentleman  began  to  rally  his  proud  daughter  on 
her  gratuitous  ill-humour  of  the  preceding  evening,  at  the 
said  delay,  and  then  to  scold  the  young  men  for  their  effemi 
nacy  and  want  of  gallantry,  courage,  in  suffering  themselves 
to  be  deluged  by  the  storm.  Now,  to  be  charged,  all  at 
once,  with  effeminacy,  and  want  of  gallantry,  and  courage, 
even  in  jest,  was  too  much,  and  in  Frank's  case,  too  near 
the  truth  to  go  without  reply.  So  he  began  vehemently  to 
clear  his  fame,  assuring  the  assembled  company  that  it  was 
not  altogether  effeminacy,  for  that  they  had  been  hospitably 
sheltered  in  the  cabin*of  a  beautiful  shepherdess. 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank,  maliciously,  "so  beautiful  ilia*  Clifton 
there  couldn't  keep  his  eyes  off  her,  and  while  I  sat  and 
played  checkers  with  her  brother,  he  sat  and  <tudied  Ley 


CLIFTON     AXD     THE     BEAUTIES.  49 

face,  <  and  it  were  a  book' — for  hours.  I  wish  you  had  soen 
him,  Miss  Clifton — 

"  •  Never  <razeo  the  moon 
Upon  Ilie  water  as  he  sat  and  read 
As  'twere  l.er  eyes.' 

Fact,  my  dear  lady,  and  I  should  be  guilty  of  misprision  sf 
treason,  to  conceal  it!"  laughed  Frank,  shaking  his  head  at 
his  friend. 

"  Ah-h-h !  H-a-a-ah  ! — aro  you  Mere,  my  fine  fellow!" 
chuckled  the  old  gentleman,  gleefully  rubbing  his  hands, 
and  pointing  his  finger  at  his  nephew,  greatly  enjoying  hia 
discomfiture. 

"I  assure  you,  sir,"  began  Captain  Clifton,  gravely. 

"Oh!  don't  assure  me!  don't  assure  me!  Assure 
Carolyn  !  What  d'ye  think  o'  that,  Carolyn  ?  What  d'yo 
think  o'  that?  More  cause  for  ill-humor  last  night,  than 
ye  thought,  eh !  What  think  o'  that  ?"  he  continued,  mer 
cilessly. 

And  Carolyn — 

"  Oh,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looked  her.utiful 
In  the  contempt  and  anger  of  her  lip  !" 

There  are  some  women  who  cannot  bear  jest  upon  such 
subjects — who  cannot  tolerate  that  their  lovers  should  look 
with  common  curiosity — far  less  gaze  with  interest  or  admi 
ration  "  for  hours,"  upon  any  other  young  female  face.  And 
such  a  woman  was  Carolyn  Gower  Clifton.  Captain  Clifton 
knew  this,  and  adoring  her  above  all  things,  silently  wished 
Frank  and  the  mountain  girl  both  at  the  bottom  of  the  Devil's 
Staircase. 

The  old  gentleman  chatted  and  laughed ;  Frank  jested 
and  blundered  ;  the  sprightly  Zuleinie  sparkled  and  over 
flowed  with  fun  and  frolic,  arid  the  meal  went  on  merrily, 
notwithstanding. 

\\  hen  supper  was  over  they  adjourned  to  the  airy  summer 
drawing-room,  where  they  distributed  themselves  according 
to  their  several  humors.  Miss  Clifton  passed  imperiously 
tiown  the  room,  and  took  her  seat  upon  a  distant  divan, 
Captain  Clifton  fallowed,  with  a  troubled  air,  and  sat  down 


50  CLIFTON      AND      THE      BEAUTIES. 

on  the  low  Ottoman  at  her  feet.  They  doubtless  thought 
if  they  thought  at  all — that  they  were  in  a  very  obsci ,  j 
nook.  But  Frank  had  the  impertinence  to  see  them.  There 
sat  the  haughty  and  scornful  girl,  with  chin  erect,  lip 
curled,  and  eyelids  cast  down  in  disdain  upon  her  suppliant. 
And  there  sat  Archer  Clifton,  with  his  high,  proud  face 
turned  up  to  hers,  with  an  earnest,  pleading,  passional  fl 
gaze ! 

"  Now,  by  the  venom  of  Cupid's  shaft !"  exclaimed  Frank, 
to  himself,  "  I  cannot  see  what  Clifton  finds  to  worship  in 
that  arrogant  girl.  If  it  were  this  bright,  warm  Zuleime, 
here,  now  !  But  her!  I  might  really  suspect  him  of  being 
a  fortune-hunter,  and  her  of  being  an  heiress,  if  I  didn't 
know  that  Archer  Clifton  is  himself  the  heir  of  the  entailed 
estate  of  Clifton,  and  that  if  his  uncle  were  to  die  to-night, 
he  might,  if  he  pleased,  turn  all  these  penniless  women  out 
of  the  house  to-morrow  !  Can't  understand  it,  for  my  life  ! 
But  I  suppose  the  bond  of  sympathy  between  them  is  their 
iiame  ard  their  pride  !" 

"  Do  you  find  talking  to  yourself  a  very  amusing  pastime, 
Mr.  Fairfax,"  asked  Zuleime,  touching  him  on  the  elbow. 

"  No,  my  dear,  delightful  little  girl,  I  don't.  What  a 
delightful  tiling,  in  a  country  house,  is  a  beautiful  girl  of 
fourteen,  home  for  the  holy  days — a  black-eyed,  red-lipped 
girl,  in  a  white  muslin  gown  and  a  coral  necklace !" 

"  Are  your  soliloquies  as  good  natured  as  your  conversa 
tion,  Mr.  Fairfax,"  inquired  the  laughing  Zuleime. 

<;  Not  quite,  I'm  afraid,  my  dear." 

"Do  you  know  how  to  play  chess,  Mr.  Fairfax?"  sho 
asked,  opening  the  chess-board. 

"  I  know  how  to  play  anything  you  wish  me  to  play,  rny 
i.« 


love — even  the  fool !" 


"  Oh!  the  latter  is  not  so  rare  or  difficult  an  accomplish 
ment,"  laughed  the  maiden,  taking  her  seat,  and  beginning 
to  arrange  the  chess-men.  Frank  sat  down,  and  they  com 
menced  the  game  in  earnest. 

All  this  time  the  old  gentleman,  with  his  white  head  and 
nsy  face,  and  kind  smile  and  glance,  had  been  walking 
leisurely  up  and  down  the  floor  slowly,  rubbing  his  hands 
with  an  air  of  great  enjoyment — pausing  now  by  the  wrrk- 
tablc  ,at  which  sat  his  beautiful  wife,  and  gazing  OD  he? 


CLIFTON     AND     TUE     BEAUTIES.  51 

fondly  wliile  he  toyed  -with  the  elegant  trifles  of  her  work- 
box — then  saunter  ing  off  towards  the  chess-table,  and  patting 
the  head  of  his  "  little  black-headed  darling" — as  he  called 
Zuleime — or  passing  a  jest  with  Frank  as  he  overlooked  the 
game — until  the  boy  came  from  the  post-office  somewhat  late ; 
when  taking  the  paper  ho  went  and  ensconced  himself  in  an 
easy-chair  on  the  opposite  side  of  his  wife's  work-table,  and 
,vas  soon  busied  in  the  perusal  of  the  debate  on  Mr.  Jeffu-- 
$on's  bill  '  for  cutting  off  entails.  Frank  felt  very  much 
pleased  that  the  old  boy,  as  he  mentally  called  him,  was 
quieted  at  last,  and  that  he  himself  had  at  length  an  oppor 
tunity  of  initiating  his  charming  companion  into  the  mys 
teries  of  flirtation,  while  she  imparted  to  him  the  secrets 
of  chess. 

The  room  was  now  very  quiet.  And  Frank  was  soon  deeply 
immersed  in  his  game.  Yes — the  room  was  very  quiet,  it 
seemed  the  sanctuary  of  domestic  love  and  happiness !  At 
one  extremity  sat  the  betrothed  lovers,  conversing  in  a  low 
tone,  softer  than  the  hum  of  far-off  bees.  At  the  other  ex 
tremity  sat  the  graceful  young  wife,  placidly  pursuing  her 
quiet  work,  and  seeming  more  like  the  darling  spoiled  child 
of  the  old  man,  her  husband,  who  sat  reading  by  her  side, 
and  whose  kind  eyes  often  wandered  from  the  paper  and 
rested  fondly  upon  her.  About  midway  of  the  room,  sat 
Frank  and  his  bright  companion,  too  deeply  interested  in 
their  chess  to  notice  the  happy  lovers,  or  to  observe  the  quiet 
contentment  of  the  old  man  with  his  beautiful  darling.  Yes, 
this  room  seemed  a  temple  of  domestic  truth  and  trust-  -of 
family  peace  and  joy.  At  least  so  thought  Frank,  until 
raising  his  eyes  from  his  game,  his  glance  chanced  to  fall  for 
an  instant  upon  the  face  of  Mrs.  Clifton. 

It  might  have  been  the  darkness  of  her  surrounding* 
which  threw  into  such  strong  relief  that  fearful  countenance^ 
for  the  blaok  dress  and  flowing  black  mantilla  veiled  all  hei> 
form,  while  ths  clustering  deep  black  curls  darkly  shaded 
her  face.  Her  form  was  turned  from  the  table  and  bent 
over  the  arm  of  the  chair — her  bosom  was  heaving,  her  lipgj 
apart  and  humid,  her  nostrils  slightly  distended,  and  her 
eyes,  those  dreadful  eyes,  fixed  with  a  passionate,  fierce, 
devouring  gaze  upon  some  distant  object. 

Frank  impulsively  followed  the  direction  of  that  consuming 


52  CLIFTON      AND      THE      BEAUTIES. 

froze,  to  where  the  betrothed  lovers  sat  fully  reconciled 
Clifton,  unconscious  of  all  eyes,  but  those  blue  orbs  that 
smiled  sc  graciously  upon  him,  was  pressing  Carolyn's  hand 
to  his  lips  in  an  ecstacy  of  love  and  gratitude.  Frank 
turned  again  to  Mrs.  Clifton.  Her  countenance  had  changed 
as  by  the  passage  of  a  thunder-cloud.  Her  bosom  was  still 
os  death.  Her  brow  and  cheek  was  darkened,  her  teeth  and 
lips  clenched  together,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  lovers  with 
the  baleful  glare  of  a  demon.  If  the  head  of  the  fabled  Me 
dusa  had  suddenly  met  his  astonished  gaze,  he  could  not 
have  felt  a  deeper  thrill  of  horror.  And  yet  it  was  only  a 
look — the  look  of  an  instant — it  came  and  went  like  the 
swift  swooping  past  of  a  field's  wing — but  the  shadow  on  all 
things  seemexl  to  remain.  No  more  did  that  room  seem  ihe 
blessed  retreat  of  household  faith  and  love — no  !  a  deadly 
^serpent  lay  coiled  among  its  flowers — a  deadly  poison  lurked 
n1  its  cup  of  joy — the  shadow  of  a  demon's  wing  was  brood 
ing  in  the  air — the  house  was  CURSED  ! 

Frank  wras  of  a  highly  honorable  nature,  but  nervous  and 
impressible — he  could  no  longer  confine  his  attention  to  the 
game  ;  he  misplayed  awkwardly — ridiculously.  Zuleime 
laughed  at  him — and  her  silver  laughter  struck  almost  un 
pleasantly  upon  his  ear.  He  lost  the  game,  and  finallv, 
complimenting  his  young  antagonist  upon  the  excellence  of 
her  own  play — an  excellence  which  he  admitted  he  had  not 
fully  brought  out — Frank  arose  from  the  table  and  sauntered 
out  into  the  piazza,  exclaiming  inwardly — "  Ugh  !  I  believe 
in  Satan,  since  I've  seen  that  woman !  Ugh  !  Whc-e\v  ' 
Every  time  I  think  of  her  I  shall  feel  hot  and  smell  brim 
stone  !"  I  said  that  Frank  was  of  an  extremely  impressible 
nature.  He  stood  now  upon  the  piazza  at  the  back  of  the 
house,  and  the  majestic  crescent  of  cliffs  was  before  him. 
The  quiet  of  the  night,  the  freshness  of  the  dew,  the  coolness 
of  the  breeze,  the  beauty  and  sublimity  of  the  mountains 
rising  from  their  girdle  of  forest,  with  their  peaks  bathed  in 
moonlight — the  distant  glimpse  of  the  bend  in  the  riur. 
where  it  lay  like  a  silver  lake  among  the  hills — the  divine 
peace  and  holiness  of  nature  fell  soothingly,  refreshingly 
upon  his  excited  nerves.  And  after  sauntering  up  and  down 
the  piazza  for  some  twenty  minutes,  he  returned  to  the  par 
lor  in  a  happier  mood.  There  he  found  the  family  grouped 


OLIFTON     AND     TUB     BEAUIIES.  53 

n round  the  table  on  which  sat  a  silver  basket  of  pine-apples 
\vith  cut-glass  plates,  and  silver  fruit  knives  and  napkins. 

"  Co  1 1 10,  Mr.  Fairfax,  my  dear  fellow,  \vo  are  waiting  foi 
you,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  beckoning  him. 

Frank  joined  the.,.  >;  iLc  tuU;,  c.;id  after  this  re-past  waA 
07er,  the  family  separated  and  retired  to  bad. 


MRS.       CLIFTON,       OF      R  A IID  B  ARG  A I N. 


CHAPTER 


MRS.  CLIFTON,  OF   HARDBARGAIN. 

*n<»  is  a  ndy  of  confirmed  honor,  of  an  unmaichaWe  spirit,  and  d«- 
'trminate  in  all"  virtuous  resolutions;  not  haMy  to  an'ioif  ate  all'ront,  nor 
xio\v  to  feel  where  just  provocation  is  given. — CHARLKS  LA.MB. 

CLIFTON  by  the  morning  sunlight !  Oh !  that  I  could 
show  it  to  you  as  Fairfax  saw  it  from  the  balcony  of  his 
chamber  on  the  morning  after  his  arrival !  The  whole  face 
of  the  country  was  very  high,  yet  even  this  elevated  land 
was  broken  into  hills  and  valleys,  rocks  and  glens.  Behind 
the  house  arose  the  white  cliffs  so  often  mentioned,  shutting 
out  tho  Northern  view,  but  before  the  house  lay  the  valley 
in  which  the  plantation  was  situated,  and  around  that,  East, 
West  and  South,  stretched  a  magnificent  panorama,  ridge 
beyond  ridge  of  mountains,  covered  with  gigantic  forests, 
clothed  with  the  richest  verdure,  rolling  on  until  they  gradu 
ally  faded  away  in  the  distance,  their  forms  lost  among  the 
clouds  of  the  horizon.  It  seemed  a  vast,  boundless  ocean  of 
greenery,  of  which  the  vales  and  mountains  were  the  stu 
pendous  waves,  charmed  to  sleep. 

It  was  a  magnificent  solitude.  Not  a  human  dwelling  to 
be  seen.  The  planters'  mansions — if  there  were  any  in  the 
neighborhood,  were  low  in  the  vales,  and  hidden  from  sight. 
The  mountain  torrent,  as  it  came  leaping  down  the  side  of 
the  cliff,  running  through  the  wooded  lawn,  losing  itself  in 
the  forest  vale,  and  reappearing  as  a  mountain  lake  among 
the  distant  hills,  was  a  beautiful  feature  in  the  landscape. 
The  deep  intense  blue  of  the  clear  skies,  the  early  splendor 
of  the  sun-light,  the  murmur  of  the  breeze  among  the  wav 
ing  trees,  the  joyous  songs  of  birds,  gladdened  all  the  scene, 
and  put  to  flight  Frank's  blue  devils,  long  before  Dandy 
called  him  to  breakfast.  • 

The  breakfast-table  was  set  in  the  lawn  under  the  shadow 
of  the  pine  elins. 


MRS.     CLIFTON       OF     HARDBARGAIX.         55 

The  old  gentleman,  in  his  suit  of  cool  white  linen — the 
sisters  in  neat  morning  dresses  of  white  cambric,  and  the 
dark  Georgia,  in  her  usual  dress  of  black,  were  assembled 
on  the  piazza.  They  greeted  Mr.  Fairfax  with  lively  wel 
come,  telling  him  that  Clifton  had  not  yet  made  his  appear 
ance.  But  even  while  they  spoke,  Captain  Clifton  joined 
them,  and  they  sat  down  to  breakfast.  Those  breakfasts  on 
the  lawn !  How  many  times  in  after  years,  in  the  sultry 
heat  of  the  city  hotel,  did  Fairfax  recall  them ! 

Soon  after  breakfast,  Captain  Clifton  invited  Mr.  Fairfax 
to '  accompany  him  in  a  ride  up  the  ridge  to  his  mother's 
farm.  And  after  taking  leave  of  the  ladies  they  set  out. 
They  left  the  house  by  the  back  way,  and  took  a  winding 
bridle-path  up  the  side  of  the  cliffs.  The  day  was  very  fine 
and  cool,  and  their  path  was  shaded  by  overhanging  trees. 
(t  was  altogether  a  delightful  ride,  and  as  they  went  up, 
Clifton,  who  led  the  way,  turned  his  head  around  and  in 
quired — 

"  Frank !  what  instigated  you  to  romance  so  last  night 
about  our  sojourn  at  the  mountain  hut  V 

"  Romance  ?  I  didn't  romance,  except  in  saying  that  the 
girl  was  beautiful.  I  sold  that  for  your  credit !" 

"  Oh  !  I  ought  to  be  exceedingly  obliged  to  you  !" 

"Yes — I  think  so,  too — but  what  malicious  Puck  gave 
you  a  love-weed,  and  fooled  you  into  sitting  and  studying 
that  ugly  little  girl's  hard  face  all  the  evening?" 

"  I  did  not  think  her  ugly  at  all.  She  has  a  noble  coun 
tenance.  A  most  noble  countenance.  One,  of  whLh  an 
empress  might  be  proud  of!" 

"  Ha,  ha !  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  7"  saw  nothing  but  ?, 
mountainous  forehead,  and  a  strong  portcullis  jaw  !  *  Noble  !' 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  I  said  you'd  taken  the  lore-powder  !J? 

"  Yet  even  you  cannot  find  any  but  a  noble  simile  in  speak 
ing  of  her  4  ugly  '  features  !" 

"  Ah !   what  will  Miss  Clifton  think  of  this  admiration  *" 

"  Sir,  Miss  Clifton  has  my  deepest  homage,  and  when  she 
is  my  wife,  she  will  indulge  no  follies.  But,  Fairfax,  you 
aie  absurd,  and  I  bog  you  will  abandon  this  ridiculous  con 
versation.  You  know  that  I  have  always  had  a  proclivity 
to  the  study  of  character.  Nature  made  me  something  of  a 
physiognomist.  And  if  there  be  any  truth  in  my  favorite 


66  MRS.       CLIFTON,      OF      HARDBARGAIN 

science,  tliat  mountain  girl's  face  presented  the  most  extra- 
ordinary  combination  of  power  and  goodness  I  have  ever 
riuit  with." 

"  Oh  !  then  you  only  studied  the  maiden  as  the  botanist 
would  study  a  new  plant,  the  geologist  a  new  fossil,  or  the 
naturalist  a  strange  animal  ? — " 

— "  Or  the  astronomer  a  new  STAR  ?  Precisely,  sir!  Ex 
cept  that  the  human  being  is  the  highest  and  most  absorbing 
study  of  all!" 

"  Really  !  really  !  this  passes  belief — the  proud,  fastidious 
Archer  Clifton,  to  be  smitten  with  an  ugly  mountain  girl !" 

"  Frank  !  Nonsense — you  really  anger  me.  Listen,  then, 
and  I  will  tell  you  why  that  child — for  she  is  but  a  child — 
interested  me  so  much.  I  saw  in  her  face  the  signs  of  won 
derful  force  of  character,  as  yet  undeveloped,  and  1  saw  in 
all  her  actions  that  which  corroborated  their  testimony.  I 
was  surprised  to  find  all  that  in  the  humble  mountaineer, 
and  speculated  as  to  what,  in  her  very  humble  situation,  it 
might  lead.  That  was  simply  all !" 

"  And  did  you  not  wish  to  be  a  providence  to  the  moun 
tain  jrirl,  and  open  a  field  for  so  much  energy?" 

"Perhaps  such  a  thought  might  have  presented  itself  to 
my  mind.  If  so,  it  was  dismissed  at  once.  A  highly  gifted 
man  of  low  birth  must  have  extraordinary  talents  indeed, 
and  be  placed  in  extraordinary  circumstances,  to  elevate 
himself  above  his  condition — for  a  girl  in  such  a  case  it  is 
impossible.  But,  Fairfax,  really  this  conversation  has  taken 
a  more  serious  tone  than  I  designed  it  should.  Ecally, 
nobility  of  character,  though  very  rare  among  the  lower 
classes  of  society,  is  yet  not  so  impossible  as  to  excite  our 
wonder.  There  are  others  like  Kate  Kavanagh — " 

— "  How  pat  you've  got  her  name  !  Now  /  had  forgotten 
it!" 

"  Pooh  !  I  say  there  arc  others  like  her.  They  are  born 
great— they  live  and  die,  and  the  world  hears  nothing  of 
tl'-:m.  And  taints  that  might  have  swayed  the  counsels  of 
a  momrch,  and  decided  the  destinies  of  an  empire,  h.'ivo 
been  employed  to  direct  the  household  of  a  shepherd.  an-J 
determine  the  fate  of  a  sheep  !  Such  is  the  order  of  society, 
and  better,  far  better  so,  than  that  its  boundaries  should  b? 
thrown  down,  its  ranks  intermingled  !" 


MRS.     CLIFTON,     OF     HARDBARGAIN.         67 

'•There  spoke  a  Clifton  of  Clifton  !"  said  Frank. 

They  were  now  at  the  top  of  the  ridge,  and  entering  upon 
B  hard,  stony,  half-reclaimed  farm,  in  the  midst  of  which 
stood  a  rude,  but  substantial  house,  built  of  hewn  rocks  of 
eveiy  shade  of  gray,  and  surrounded  by  trees.  Below  them, 
iH  around,  rose  the  forest-crowned  hills;  behind  them  the 
white  cliffs  concealed  the  mansion  of  Clifton  from  their  sight 
ill  around  them  la}'  fields  of  stunted  corn. 

"  This  is  Hard  bargain,"  said  Captain  Clifton,  opening  a 
rude  farm  gate,  and  holding  it  open,  while  his  companion 
passed  through. 

"  Hard  bar  gain  !  a  most  appropriate  name  !  I  should  think 
it  the  hardest  of  all  bargains,  to  receive  this  farm  as  a  pre 
cious  gift,"  replied  Frank,  looking  around  upon  the  stony 
field  and  stunted  corn. 

"Yes, "admitted  Captain  Clifton,  "it  is  a  well-merited  title. 
It  was  once  called  Kocky  llidge.  A  poor  man  got  a  grant 
of  it, and  settled  there  first — spent  all  his  health  and  strength 
in  trying  to  bring  the  rugged  soil  under  cultivation — failed 
— christened  the  place  Hard-ic.  aWr,and  sold  it  to  my  grand 
father  for  thrice  its  value.  My  grandfather  repented  the 
purchase,  re-christened  the  ill-starred  farm  Hzrdbargain, 
End,  as  the  Clifton  estate  was  entailed  upon  his  eldest  son, 
gave  this  farm  as  a  portion  to  his  younger  son,  my  father. 
My  father  was  then  a  subaltern  officer  in  the  Continental 
Army,  and  absent  with  Washington,  at  Valley  Forge.  My 
mother,  with  myself,  then  an  infant,  was  a  temporary 
sojourner  at  Clifton.  No  sooner  had  my  grandfather  made  a 
gift  to  my  father  of  this  nearly  barren  farm,  than  my  mother 
set  all  her  faculties  at  work  for  its  cultivation  and  improve 
ment.  My  mother  wras  nearly  penniless,  being  the  daughter 
of  a  family  of  decayed  fortune.  My  father  was  unable  to 
send  her  anything  except  the  Continental  notes,  with  which 
he  himself  was  paid,  but  which  would  scarcely  pass  farther. 
Hut  being  determined  not  to  eat  the  bread  of  dependence  by 
remaining  at  Clifton  after  my  grandfather's  death,  my  mother 
5<»  Id  all  her  jewelry  and  plate,  which  had  been  left  her  by  i* 
jeenased  maiden  aunt,  and  applied  the  proceeds  of  the  salo 
to  the  improvement  of  Hardbargain.  She  hired  laborers 
There  was  a  rude  log  hut,  built  by  the  first  settlei  upon  the 
;an<l.  She  hired  i  woman,  and  placed  her  in  that  hut  to 


58  MRS.       CLIFTON,      OP      HARDBARGA1N. 

keep  house  and  cook  for  them.  She  read  books  on  agricul 
ture,  and  consulted  my  uncle's  overseer  upon  the  same  sub 
ject.  And  every  morning  she  rode  up  and  spent  the  day  at 
Hard  bargain,  overlooking  the  laborers.  She  was  her  own 
overseer !  Frank  !  you  appreciate  high  worth  when  you  see 
it  I  may,  besides,  tell  you  anything — you  are  my  only 
companion — I  tell  you  that  my  dear  mother  was  one  in  ten 
thousand.  She  was  a  true  heroine,  a  heroine  of  domestic,-— 
life.  Abandoning  all  her  habits  of  elegance'*aTiTH»efon?ment, 
despising  luxury,  ease  and  comfort,  disdaining  the  sneers  of 
the  world,  and  giving  herself  to  toil  and  hardship,  and  weari 
ness  of  body  and  mind,  that  she  might  win  from  the  desert 
an  independent  home  for  her  family  !  My  dear  mother  had 
no  reason  to  suppose,  and  never  admitted  the  possibility  that 
my  uncle  would  not  be  blessed  with  a  male  heir,  that  /,  her 
son,  for  whom  she  toiled  to  secure  a  rugged  farm,  would  be 
the  inheritor  of  entailed  Clifton !  And  so  she  toiled,  year 
after  year,  until  at  the  end  of  the  war,  when  the  army  w?aa 
reduced,  and  my  father  came  home,  he  found  a  comfortable 
house,  and  a  productive  farm." 

Clifton  seemed  to  have  fallen  into  one  of  his  fits  of  remi 
niscence  ;  scarcely  conscious  that  he  was  talking  to  his  true 
but  volatile  friend,  scarcely  conscious  that  he  was  talking  at 
all,  he  went  on — 

"My  first  recollection  of  my  dearest  mother,  is  of  a  very 
noble  looking  lady,  of  dark  complexion,  black  hair,  and  gray 
eyes.  I  recollect,  when  an  infant  of  four  years  old,  being 
brought  out  from  the  mansion  house  of  Clifton  every  morn 
ing,  to  the  back  road  gate,  where  she  sat  upon  her  horso 
awaiting  me,  with  a  little  basket,  containing  our  dinner, 
hanging  on  the  horn  of  the  saddle.  I  used  to  be  lifted  to 
the  saddle  before  her,  and  while  her  left  arm  encircled  me, 
with  her  right  hand  she  would  guide  her  horse  around  the 
base  of  the  cliff,  and  take  the  winding  bridle-path  that  led 
up  the  I^cky  Ridge,  upon  which  lay  her  sterile  farm  of 
liardbargain.  Oh  !  I  remember  how  she  used  to  ride  from 
field  to  field,  making  investigations,  and  giving  directions  10 
jer  rude  workmen — and  with  what  deference  the  rough  miii 
were  used  to  address  her — hat  in  hand.  I  remember,  too, 
our  cold  dinners,  taken  under  the  shade  of  an- el  in  tree, 
whose  lowest  branches  sheltered  a  fine  spring — the  bead 


MRS.     CLIFTON       OF     HARDBARGAIN.         51/ 

waters  of  that  very  torrent,  which,  in  course  of  tirae  and 
space,  swells  into  the  mighty  river  I  told  you  of.  Oh  !  my 
noble  mother !  how  few  wou-ld  have  displayed  her  courage 
and  fortitude ! — not  one  in  a  million  but  would  have  rather 
sat  down  in  the  luxurious  ease  and  abundance  of  Clifton, 
where  she  had  a  long  welcome  for  as  long  as  she  she  uld 
choose  to  stay — rather  than  have  dared  the  toil  and  hard 
ship  that  she  endured.  'The  land  was  at  last  cleared  up,  the 
farm  laid  off  in  order,  and  brought  under  the  best  possible 
cultivation.  A  comfortable  house  was  built,  and  my  mother 
moved  into  it  to  receive  my  father  when  he  should  come 
home,  at  the  disbanding  of  his  company.  lie  came  at  last — 
it  was  a  happy  time — and  well  I  remember  how  my  mother's 
young,  but  stern  and  weather-beaten  face,  bloomed  ana 
softened  again  into  youth  and  beauty  and  womanhood,  by  her 
soldier's  side.  But,  ah !  he  had  survived  all  the  horrible 
perils  and  sufferings  by  cold,  hunger,  and  the  foe,  endured 
by  our  army  during  that  long  and  terrible  struggle,  and  re 
turned  safe,  to  die  in  a  time  of  peace — to  die  at  home,  where 
every  care  and  comfort  surrounded  him.  Yes,  he  came  home 
in  the  winter  of  — 82.  Towards  the  spring,  he  took  a  slight 
cold — it  was  neglected  as  of  little  account — it  settled  upon 
his  lungs — before  winter  came  again,  he  died,  and  the  first 
snow  that  fell,  fell  upon  his  grave.  My  honored  mother  was 
a  strong-minded  woman.  After  what  I  have  told  yoa,  you 
know  that  she  was !  She  loved  him  as  only  the  strong  can 
love.  She  suffered  as  only  the  strong  can  suffer.  She  rose 
above  that  death-blow  to  her  happiness  as  only  the  strong 
nan  rise.  But  she  has  never  been  the  same  woman  since. 
When  a  few  years  had  passed,  and  her  son's  welfare  demanded 
her  care,  she  aroused  every  faculty  of  her  mind  and  body, 
tor  the  '  purpose  of  insuring'  his  greatest  good.  Even  at 
*lmt  epoch  of  time,  there  was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  1 
should  inherit  the  Clifton  estate.  My  uncle  was  then  in  tho 
prime  of  manhood,  had  married  his  second  wife,  and  by  no 
means  despaired  of  male  issue.  My  dear  mother  taxed  soul, 
body  and  estate  to  the  utmost,  to  defray  my  expenses  at 
college,  during  the  seven  years  of  my  residence  there.  It 
was  also  to  her  persevering  exertions,  as  well  as  to  the  late 
military  services  of  my  deceased  father,  that  I  owed  my  com- 
uission  in  the  army.  They  say  that  misfortunes  never  coma 


,X)  MRS.      CLIFTON,      OF      HARDBARQA1N. 

single.  Good  fortune  certainly  ne'er  docs,  if  I  may  judge 
c£  our  own  experience  of  both.  When  1  had  left  college, 
the  heaviest  tax  was  raised  from  our  income,  and  when  1  ob 
tained  a  commission  in  the  army,  my  year's  pay  u.ore  than 
doubled  the  annual  income  from  the  proceeds  of  the  farm 
At  this  time  also  my  mother  received  a  legacy  fro-m  an  aged 
and  distant  relative,  which  enabled  her  if>  st^ck  her  larui 
well,  and  furnish  her  hoiwe  comfortably.  Furthermore,  nrj 
uncle  having  lost  his  third  wife.,  and  at  last  given  up  all 
thoughts  of  a  son  of  his  own,  began  lo  take  quite  a  paternal 
interest  in  me — insisting,  when  o!f  duty,  I  should  spend  ail 
my  time  with  him — and  finding  neither  myself  no'-  my  mo 
ther  disposed  to  forego  each  other's  society,  would  have  per- 
•  suaded  the  latter  to  take  up  her  abode  under  his  roof.  But 
that  arrangement  did  not  suit  my  mother.  She,  who  in  het 
young  womanhood  had  too  high  a  spirit  for  dependencc- 
preferring  to  give  herself  to  severest  toil  and  privation,  rather 
than  live  in  easy  luxury  under  another's  roof — could  not  in 
/her  stern  maturity  be  bribed  to  give  up  her  well-earned  in- 
j  dependence.  Nor  indeed,  under  any  circumstances,  should 
'.  I  have  consented  to  the  plan.  We  compromised  the  matter 
by  my  agreeing  to  spend  half  the  time  of  furlough  at  Ciii'ton. 
This  was  the  more  congenial  to  n,y  feelings,  as  my  cousin 
Carolyn  had  now  left  school  permanently.  As  for  my  uncle, 
he  consoled  himself  for  his  disappointment  in  not  getting  my 
mother's  society  at  Clifon,  by  marrying  a  fourth  wife." 

"  I  am  impressed  with  the  idea  that  your  mother  is  a  very 
proud  woman,  Clit'tcn  !"  said  Frank,  taking  &d vantage  of 
Captain  Clifton's  first  thoughtful  pause. 

"  No,  no,"  he  answered,  slowly,  as  in  half  reverie,  «  no — 
is  not  what  the  world  calls  proud — she  is  no  conservator 
of  rank,  as  I  am.  She  is  the  only  true  republican  I  know 
in  this  whole  Kepublic.  Sprung,  herself,  from  an  ancient, 
uoble,  and  haughty  race,  she  yet  honors  talent  and  virtue, 
when  met  with  in  the  lowest  ranks,  as  much — nay,  I  verily 
bolievc,  more,  than  when  found  in  the  highest  circles,  wheie 
it  is  natural  they  should  be  more  frequently  seen." 

"  But  here  we  -v.e,  and  you  shall  judge  for  you  reel  (V 

concluded  Captain  Clifton,  as  he  opened  a  ^aie  admitting 
them  into  a  shady  yard,  in  the  midst  of  which  stood  the  house. 
They  alighted  at  the  gate  and  gave  their  horses  into  the  charge 


OF     HARDBARGAIN.         61 

ef  a  nogvo  boy,  and  walked  on  to  the  house.  It  was  a  plain 
cMong  stone  building,  of  two  stories,  with  a  deep,  shady 
piazza,  running  the  whole  length  ot  the  front.  It  was  divided 
through  the  centre  by  a  wide  passage  way,  the  front  and 
back  doors  of  which  were  both  open  and  drawing  a  fine  diaf't 
of  air,  and  from  which  opened  four  large  airy  rooms,  two  on 
a  side.  They  stepped  up  on  the  piazza,  and  wrrc  met  at  the 
front  door  by  a  neatly  clothed  negro  girl,  who  admitted  them 
into  the  passage,  and  opening  a  door  on  the  right  hand  next 
the  front,  showed  them  into  a  cool,  breezy,  but  plainly  fur 
nished  parlor ;  the  walls  and  ceiling  being  simply  white 
washed,  and  the  floor  bare  but  highly  polished  with  wax,  as 
was  the  summer  custom  of  the  country  at  that  day.  The 
fire-place  was  open  and  filled  with  green  bushes.  Ihe  win 
dow-curtains,  and  the  lounge,  and  easy  chair  covers,  were 
all  of  chintz.  There  was  a  reality  of  substantial  and  perma 
nent  comfort  about  the  place,  that  Frank  thought  he  had 
never  seen  elsewhere.  And  when  Clifton  invited  him  to  be 
seated,  and  he  rested  himself  in  one  of  those  cool  arm-chairs 
in  that  shaded  room,  he  declared  that  a  feeling  of  at-homc- 
ativeness  came  over  him,  such  as  he  had  never  experienced 
since  he  left  his  own  mother's  house,  and  never  hoped  to  feel 
again  until  he  should  have  a  house  of  his  own.  The  negro 
girl  whom  Clifton  addressed  as  Hcnnie,  then  left  the  room  to 
summon  her  mistress,  and  shortly  after  the  lady  of  the  house 
entered. 

Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  was  now  about  fifty  years 
of  age — tall,  and  inclining  to  en  bon  point ,  but  not  more  sc 
than  well  became  her  years.  Her  complexion  was  dark,  anji 
her  hair  and  eyes  black.  Her  features  were  strongly  marked 
and  commanding,  indicative  of  great  strength  of  will  ancfl 
indomitable  firmness  of  purpose,  all  moderated,  however,  by\ 
the  expression  of  her  countenance,  which  was  at  once  com-  \ 
posed  and  gracious.  Her  manner  was  marked  by  unaffected 
dignity  and  courtesy — her  dress  was  of  very  plain  dark  silk, 
made  high  to  the  throat,  and  with  sleeves  coming  down  to 
the  wrists,  a  small  ruff  set  closely  around  her  neck,  fastened 
vnili  a  mourning  pin.  Her  only  head-dress  was  her  own 
black  hair,  which,  though  slightly  mingled  with  gray,  was 
vorn  uncovered.  Indeed,  cap  or  turban  upon  that  ncblc 
head  would  have  looked  impertinent.  She  advanced  into  the 
4 


653  MRS.       CLIFTON,      OP      HARDBAAGAIN. 

room  and  greeted  her  son  with  affection,  and  welcomed  Mi. 
Fairfax  with  courtesy,  though  her  words  were  so  few,  and 
her  manner  was  so  calm,  as  to  seem  cool.  Frank  thought 
her  a  very  nohle  looking  woman,  though  somewhat  stiff  and 
cold.  Indeed,  all  strangers,  and  superficial  observers,  though  I 
her  cold  and  proud.  Never  was  a  greater  misapprehension 
of  character — never  did  a  larger  or  more  generous  heart  live 
in  the  bosom  of  woman — albeit,  its  pulsations  were  of  the 
calmest  and  most  regular  character.  She  sat  down  and  en 
tered  into  an  easy  conversation  with  her  son  and  his  friciul, 
inquiring  into  the  particulars  of  their  journey,  and  making 
comments  as  they  were  related.  Once  during  the  recital  her 
cheek  almost  imperceptibly  changed.  It  was  at  the  telling  of 
the  hair-breadth  escape  at  the  brink  of  the  Devil's  Staircase, 
but  upon  that  she  made  no  observation  whatever.  She  rang 
a  little  hand-bell,  which  was  answered  by  the  entrance  of 
Hennie.  She  took  a  bunch  of  keys  from  her  pocket,  and 
giving  them  to  the  girl,  directed  her  to  bring  refreshments- 
Hennie  left  the  room,  but  soon  returned  bearing  a  large 
waiter  with  home-made  wine,  cake,  and  a  basket  of  fino 
peaches  and  pears.  While  they  regaled  themselves  upon 
these  luxuries,  she  inquired  after  the  health  and  well-being 
of  the  family  of  White  Cliffs,  and  having  received  satisfactory 
answers,  turned  to  Mr.  Fairfax  and  hoped  that  he  was  suffi 
ciently  well  pleased  with  their  neighborhood  to  favor  it  with 
a  long  sojourn.  Frank  assured  her  that  he  should  never 
grow  weary  of  the  delights  of  his  visit,  and  should  conclude 
it  only  when  compelled  to  do  so,  and  then  with  great  regret. 
The  conversation  then  became  of  more  general  interest.  Tho 
weather,  the  condition  of  the  roads,  the  health  of  the  neigh 
borhood,  &c.,  were  discussed.  And  then  the  discourse  took 
a  higher  tone,  and  the  agricultural  and  political  condition 
and  prospects  of  the  whole  country,  and  the  great  probability 
of  another  speedy  war  with  Great  Britain,  were  debated* 
f  And  Mr.  Fairfax  wondered  at  the  extent  of  information,  the 
\  strong  grasp  of  mind,  and  the  depth  and  justness  of  thought, 
\  displayed  by  this  recluse  lady  upon  subjects  apparently  sc 
'foreign  to  her  daily  experience. 

They  made  quite  a  long  morning  visit,  and  before  their 

Departure,  Captain  Clifton  took  an  opportunity — while  Mr. 

Fairfax  was  walking  around  the  room  and  staring  at  some 


MRS.     CLIFTON,     OF     II ARDI  ARG AIN.         (>H 

old  family  pictures,  among  which  hung  a  portrait  by j 

of  Oliver  Cromwell,  as  Lord  Protector  of  Kngland — to  draw 
his  mother  aside,  and  say  to  her — 

"  Madam,  I  have  ;a  proposition  to  make  to  you,  or  a  favoi 
to  ask — as  it  may  turn  out." 

"  What  is  it,  my  son  ?"  gravely  inquired  the  lady. 

•8  You  heard  Mr.  Fairfax  speak  of  the  young  mountain-girl 
whom  we  met  just  before  the  storm,  and  who  kindly  con 
ducted  us  to  her  grandfather's  cabin  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  It  is  of  her  that  I  would  speak,  and  for  her  that  I  would 
enlist  your  sympathy  and  protection — " 

"  Go  on,  I  attend,  my  son." 

"  You  have  given  me  some  credit  for  insight  into  charactei 
If  my  judgment  is  worthy  of  your  consideration,  this  young 
girl  is  deserving  of  your  kindest  offices." 

11  Does  she  deserve  them?" 

"  Madam,  she  impressed  me  as  being  a  child  of  high  moral 
and  mental  endowments,  and  the  trying  experience  of  one 
night  proved  the  truth  of  that  impression." 

"  Docs  she  need  my  good  offices  ?" 

"  Mother !  with  the  finest  intellectual  capacities,  she  is 
nearly  destitute  of  all  opportunities  of  intellectual  culture. 
That  is  bad — but  not  so  deplorable  as  what  follows.  Kat.e 
Kavanagh — that  is  her  name — is  far  removed  from  all  of  her 
own  sex.  Her  young  brother,  her  only  protector,  is  absent 
from  homo  from  earliest  dawn  till., late  at  night.  Her  only 
companion  is  an  old  .nan,  an  habitual  drunkard,  subject  to 
frequent  and  furious  fits  of  mania-a-potu.  Her  case,  upon 
my  showing,  may  not  be  so  exigent,  lint  if  you  had  seen 
her  as  I  did,  it  would  seem  so.  Her  brother  being  best  ac 
quainted  with  the  circumstances,  is  the  best  judge  in  th" 
premises,  arid  is  very  anxious  upon  his  sister's  account,  ant1 
wishes  to  get  her  a  place  at  service." 

"  But  if  she  is  a  girl  of  so  excellent  a  nature  as  you  liav 
supposed,  will  she  leave  her  aged  relative?" 

"Not  willingly,  certainly — but — I  wish  the  opportunity 
of  improving  her  condition  afforded  her,  indeed,  1  promised 
her  brother  Carl  that  it  should  be  presented." 

*  I  know  Carl  Kavanagh-  -he  worked  for  me  during  thr 


64  MRS       OLIFTON,      OP      H  A  RI)B  ARG  AI  N. 

last  year.  I  formed  a  good  opinion  o;  him.  If  his  sister  ia 
equal  to  him  she  must  be  a  meritorious  girl." 

"  She  is  very  superior  to  him,  madam." 

The  lady  was  mistress  of  great  promptitude  and  decision 
of  action.  With  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground  she  ie- 
fieoted  for  a  few  moments,  then  lifting  them,  said — 

"  Write  to  your  friend  Carl  Kavanagh — " 

"  Not  my  friend,  dear  madam,  an'  it  please  you !"  haughtily 
interrupted  her  son. 

A  slight  shade  of  disapproval  or  of  displeasure  clouded  the 
lady's  brow  for  a  moment,  and  she  said — 

"  Write  then  to  your  dependent,  Carl  Kavanngh,  and  let 
him  know  that  I  am  willing  to  receive  his  sister  into  my  own 
jorvice  on  trial — and  that  he  may  bring  her  hither  as  soon 
as  is  convenient." 

"  Thank  you,  dearest  madam,  I  will  write  to-day,  and  send  a 
messenger  with  the  letter.  I  am  really  pleased  and  grateful 
tor  this  kindness,"  said  Archer  Clifton,  pressing  his  lips  to 
the  cheek  she  offered  to  his  salute. 

Tho  young  men  soon  after  took  leave,  being  engaged  to 
Jlne  that  day  at  home  at  White  Cliffs. 

"  Clifton  !"  said  Mr  Fairfax,  as  they  rode  along,  "  excuse 
me  for  telling  you  freely  how  highly  I  honor  your  mother. 
Yes  !  you  may  stare  !  / — the  irreverent — the  rash  said — 
excuse  me  for  telling  you  how  highly  I  honor  your  mother — 
for,  by  my  faith,  she  is  a  lady  whom  to  praise  is  presump 
tion  !  But,  my  dear  Clifton,  how  is  it  that  she  resembles  so 
closely  that  old  portrait  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  which  hangs, 
besides,  between  two  family  portraits.  It  is  not  possible  you 
claim  descent  from  kiml" 

"  My  mother  docs,  by  the  female  line.  I  do  not  think  I 
have  much  of  his  nature.  In  his  time  I  should  have  been  a 
royalist.  My  mother  venerates  his  character  very  highly/' 

"  By  my  soul !  she  is  like  him  enough  in  feature." 

"  Yes,  and  in  many  points  of  character,  she  is  strikingly 
like  him." 

In  conversation*  such  as  this  the  friends  reached  White 
Cliffs,  and  Mr.  Fairfax  retired  to  his  chamber  to  dress  for 
dinner,  and  Captain  Clifton  entered  the  library  for  the  pur- 
peso  of  writing  a  letter  to  Carl  Kavanagh. 


THE     TIDE     OF     FATE.  fo 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  TIDE  OF  FATE. 

There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  man, 

Which,  taken  at  the  Hood,  lead.?  on  to  fortune. — SHAKSPEV.  RE 

"  There  is  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  woman,' 

Which,  talcea  at  tho  Hood,  lead*— "  God  k:iows  where. — BYIOT. 

CAPTAIN  Clifton  had  written  to  Carl  Kavanagh,  infoming 
him  of  the  situation  he  had  procured  for  the  sister  of  the 
latter,  at  Hard  bargain.  And  within  this  letter  he  had  in 
closed  a  longer  one,  to  Kate,  filled  with  good  counsels  and 
urgent  reasons  why  she  should  yield  to  the  wishes  ot  her 
brother,  and  accept  the  place  offered  to  her.  After  hav 
ing  dispatched  these  letters  by  a  boy,  who  left  White  Cliffs 
that  afternoon,  on  horseback,  he  delivered  himself  up  to  the 
delights  o-f  Miss  Clifton's  society,  forgetting  all  about  tho 
mountain-girl,  until  the  next  day,  when,  being  seated  in  the 
library,  his  messenger  returned,  entered  his  presence,  and 
nanded  him  a  packet.  It  was  a  letter  from  Carl  Kavanagh, 
inclosing  one  from  Kate.  He  read  Carl's  epistle  first.  It 
began  by  expressing  much  gratitude  to  his  benefactor,  for 
his  kindness  in  having  procured  a  situation  for  his  sister,  and 
went  on  by  expressing  much  sorrow  that  he  could  not  prevail 
upon  Kate,  either  by  entreaties  or  threats,  to  accept  It,  and 
unbounded  indignation  at  what  he  called  the  girl's  wicked 
stubbornness.  The  letter  closed  by  reiterating  the  thanks 
of  the  writer.  Captain  Clift-m  held  the  letter  open  in  his 
hand,  and  lifting  his  head,  fell  into  deep  thought.  It  was 
strange  ho\v  much  thia  little  matter  depressed  him.  Account 
for  it,  any  philosopher  that  can.  Some  proud  people  have  a 
pioclivity  to  patronage — Captain  Clifton  was  very  proud, 
and  perhaps  he  was  piqued  at  being  prevented  playing  tho 
patron.  Perhaps  it  was  really  disappointed  benevolence. 
Only  it  is  certain  that  Archer  Clifton  did  not  possess  that 
quality  to  an  immoderate  degree — and  having  once  done  hi* 
duty  of  charity,  would  be  likely  to  content  himself  with  anv 


66  THE      TIDE      OF      FATE. 

result.  Perchance  he  felt  a  deeper  interest  in  the  rugged 
little  mountaineer  than  he  would  have  acknowledged,  even 
to  himself.  Perhaps  it  was  prescience — the  shadow  of  com 
ing  events.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Archer  Clifton  walked  up 
and  down  the  floor  in  silent  thought,  occasionally  broken  by  a 
Blight  sigh.  It  was  wonderful  how  much  the  knowledge  thai 
ho  should  not  have  this  child  at  home  in  his  mother's  Louse 
vexed  his  soul. 

At  length  he  recollected  Kate's  own  letter,  yet  unopened. 
"But  of  what  avail  to  read  it !  It  would  certainly  be  the 
counterpart  of  Carl's.  He  opened  it.  It  was  not,  however. 
In  the  first  place,  the  paper  was  perfectly  clean ;  and  in  the 
second,  the  writing,  spelling,  and  style,  were  rather  better. 
She  acknowledged  the  goodness  of  Captain  Clifton,  in  taking 
thought  of  her  humble  wants — expressed  regret  that  she 
could  not  avail  herself  of  his  kindness — could  not  Jeavc  her 
grandfather,  who  needed  her  services,  and  subscribed  herself 
Captain  Clifton's  obliged  and  grateful  servant.  It  was  very 
iirich  like  Carl's,  after  all.  But  here  is  a  postscript.  What 
more  can  she  have  to  say,  after  what  she  has  said,  thought 
Clifton,  as  he  turned  to  it.  It  read  thus — 

"  P.  S. — I  hope  Captain  Clifton  will  pardon  me,  if  he  thinks 
that  1  am  doing  wrong — but  it  has  COIL- 2  into  my  head,  that 
as  Captain  Clifton  is  about  to  marry,  ana  reside  in  future  at 
White  Cliffs — and  as  Mrs.  Clifton  of  Hard  bargain,  will  then 
bo  quite  alone — and  as  she  is  But  so  young,  or  active,  or 
able  to  ride  about  hev  plantation,  overseeing  her  field  hands 
as  formerly — perhaps  she  will  be  thinking  of  getting  a  farm- 
manager — if  so,  will  Captain  Clifton  kindly  remember  my 
brother  Carl,  and  speak  a  favorable  word  for  him  to  the  lady 
of  Hardbargain,  who  already  knows  and  trusts  him?  If 
Carl  gets  a  situation  as  overseer,  I  can  keep  house  for  him, 
and  we  can  both  take  care  of  our  grandfather.  Indeed  [am 
ifraid  Captain  Clifton  will  be  justly  angry  with  me  for  this 
liberty." 

"  What  a  letter!"  exclaimed  Archer  Clifton,  as  his  face 

^  alternately  lighted  up  with  satisfaction,  or  became  clouded 

,    with  thought.     "  What  a  letter  for  a  rustic  girl  of  fourteen! 

Vet  characteristic  of  he?'  and  of  her  situation.     Showing  the 

germs  of  reflection,  forethought,  courage  and  promptitude. 


TIDE     OF     FATE.  67 

the  gifts  of  nature,  mingled  with  that  frankness  bordering 
upon  presumption,  which  belongs  to  total  ignorance  of  tin1, 
world.  To  dare  to  speak  familiarly  of  our  domestic  affairs' 
But  yet  how  naively  she  deprecates  my  displeasure,  at  what 
she  feels  may  be  received  as  presumption." 

So  deeply  did  Captain  Clifton  study  Kate  and  her  letter; 
Kate's  remarkable  countenance,  with  its  breadth  of  brow  and 
gentleness  of  eyes,  haunted  him. 

He  was  a  man  of* prompt  decision  and  action — so,  having 
once  admitted  the  idea  that  his  mother  needed  an  overseer, 
he  exclaimed — 

"  Yei!  my  mother  must  be  relieved  from  her  arduous  oc 
cupation — unbefitting  a  lady  of  her  rank,  and  especially  of 
her  a<rc.  Why  could  I  not  think  of  that  before  ?  Why 
should  I  never  have  seen  the  necessity,  until  Catherine  held 
it  up  before  me  ?  Yes — my  mother  must  have  a  manager  on 
her  farm,  and  Carl  Kavanagh  shall  be  the  man.  I  will  pay 
his  salary  myself."  And  he  rung  the  bell,  ordered  his  horse, 
and  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  was  on  his  way  to  Hard- 
oargain. 

As  he  rode  up  to  the  house,  he  met  a  girl  with  a  pail  on 
her  head,  going  to  the  spring,  and  inquired  of  her  where  her 
mistress  was  to  be  found.  He  was  told,  "  down  in  the  wheat 
field."  So,  turning  his  horse's  head  a  little  to  the  left  of  the 
house,  he  rode  down  the  slope  of  the  hill,  to  a  wide  harvest 
field,  where  he  found  Mrs.  Clifton,  seated  on  her  mule,  super 
intending  the  operations  of  some  fifteen  or  twenty  laborers, 
who  were  employed  in  stacking  wheat.  He  rode  up  to  his 
mother's  side,  alighted,  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying — 

"  How-do-you-do,  to-day,  madam  ?  Busily  engaged  as 
ever,  I  see,  mother." 

"  How-do-you-do,  Archer  ?     Yes,  very  busy." 

While  Captain  Cliftor  was  revolving  in  his  mind  the  best 
way  of  introducing  the  object  of  his  visit,  which  he  had 
reason  to  believe  would  be  distasteful  to  the  energetic,  inde 
pendent  lady — she  quite  unconsciously  anticipated  his  in- 
icntion,  and  relieved  him  from  his  embarrassment,  by  say 
ing — 

"  The  heat  is  extremely  oppressive,  and  I  begin  to  find 
this  business  too  much  for  rne,  Archer.  This  continuing  out 
vn  the  lieids  day  after  day,  and  all  day  long,  thioughouf 


68  THE      TIDE      01       FATE 

thifj  burning  -weather,  begins  tc  tell,  even  upon  my  constito 
tion." 

Archer  Clifton  looked  at  his  mother  and  noticed  for  th* 
first  time  a  slight  but  certain  change  in  her  countenance^ 
invisible,  perhaps,  to  an  indifferent  glance,  but  seeming  to 
the  eve  of  affection,  fearfully  like  the  very  earliest  premoni 
tory  'symptoms  of  decay.  That  look  pierced  him  to  the 
heart.'  The  fainter  sound  of  her  voice,  too,  had  vaguely 
suggested  failing  strength — it  fell  upon  his  ear  like  a  pro 
phecy,  a  warning,  a  knell.  He  realized  then,  for  the  first 
time,'  that  his  mother  was  mortal — was  growing  old — that 
some  day  he  should  lose  her.  He  felt  then,  for  the  first  time, 
how  much  he — a  man — had  rested  on  this  good  mother — and 
his  heart  was  troubled  within  him.  And  yet  it  was  all  caused 
only  by  a  transient  weariness  in  the  look  of  her  face,  and  a 
faint  ness  in  the  tone  of  her  voice.  But  more  than  all  things 
else  on  earth — more  deeply — though  less  ardently — than  his 
own  fair  expectant  bride — did  Archer  Clifton  love  his  mo 
ther  !  It  had  even  been  said,  some  years  before,  by  one  who 
knew  him  best,  that  Clifton  could  never  love  any  woman 
with  the  full  force  of  his  nature  unless  in  qualities  of  roind 
and  heart  she  resembled  his  mother.  But  of  course,  Captain 
Clifton  had  disproved  that  prophecy  by  adoring  his  cousin, 
the  haughty  and  beautiful  Miss  Clifton.  This  is  a  digression 
— to  return — 

As  the  new  pang  of  fear  for  his  mother's  health  sped 
through  his  heart,  Archer  Clifton  took  her  hand — he  had  a 
singularly  sweet  and  persuasive  voice  and  manner,  wheu 
moved  by  his  affections,  and  said — 

"  There  is  no  necessity  for  it,  dear  mother.  Surely,  tho 
motive  that  prompted  you  when  I  was  a  lad,  and  when  this 
farm  was  our  only  prospect,  has  long  ceased  to  operate." 

"  I  know  it,  Archer.  For  some  years  past  this  personal 
superintendence  of  the  fields  has  been  more  a  matter  of 
habit,  than  a  matter  of  necessity.  If  I  could  find  a  good 
ouinager  I  might  try  one." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Carl  Kavanagh  in  that  capacity, 
toother?" 

"  Carl !  I  never  thought  of  him  at  all.  Ho  has  never 
managed  a  plantation." 

"  Bur  ^et  he  lias  been  a  farm  laborer  many  years — has  a 


THE     TIDE     OF     FATE.  G5 

practical  knowledge  of  agriculture,  and  is,  besides,  a  man  of 
more  intelligence  than  is  usually  to  be  found  in  his  class." 

«  Yes — he  is,"  said  the  lady,  thoughtfully. 

"  He  is  also  a  man  of  excellent  moral  character,  and  fault- 
IL-SP  habits — qualities  not  tgo  frequently  met  with  among 
thoro  of  his  grade." 

"  True — most  true — but  yet  he  is  young,  and  has  had  no 
experience  in  overseeing." 

"  And  never  will  have,  dear  madam,  unless  some  on&  gives 
him  the  opportunity  of  making  the  trial.  And  as  for  his 
youth,  mother — why  liis  youth  is  positively  an  advantage — 
'for  with  his  practical  knowledge,  intelligence  and  honesty, 
lie  will  be  free  from  the  conceit  and  crotchets  of  an  old 
manager,  and  will  the  more  readily  fall  into  your  system." 

"  There  is  something  in  that,"  said  the  lady.  "  And  new, 
Archer,  you  will  remain  and  dine  with  me  to-day.  And  re 
member,  that  when  this  week  is  out,  the  next  week  belongs 
to  me.  You  must  bring  your  friend  with  you  when  you 
come.  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?" 

"  Playing  battledore  with  Zuleime.  But,  dear  mother, 
about  this  Cari  Kavanagh — I  hope  you  will  consider  the  plan 
favorably,  and  try  him." 

"  I  will  think  of  it,  Archer,  because  you  propose  it,  if  for 
no  other  reason.  And  now  the  horn  is  blowing  for  the  hands 
to  go  to  dinner,  and  my  task  for  the  day  is  relieved.  Let 
us  return  to  the  house." 

They  turned  their  animals'  heads,  and  rode  up  the  ascent, 
and  entered  the  shady  yard.  Then  the  lady  alighted  from  her 
mule,  gathered  up  her  riding  skiV.  and  leaning  on  the  arm 
of  her  son,  entered  the  house.  A  plain  but  substantial  din 
ner  was  soon  served.  Archer  Clifton  enjoyed  his  mother's 
plain  meals  more  than  the  most  luxurious  dinners — not  hut 
that  he  had  a  taste  for  luxury — what  man  has  not  ? — but  that 
there  was  a  home  comfort  about  his  mother's  table,  that  gave 
him  appetite  and  spirit.  And  then,  after  dinner,  he  could 
go  and  stretch  himself  upon  the  best  lounge  in  that  large, 
ahady,  breezy  parlor,  with  a  book,  and  read  or  doze  until  she 
had  attended  to  the  putting  away  of  her  things,  and  had 
locked  up  her  pantries.  Then  she  would  come  and  sit  in  the 
rocki;ig-chair  by  his  side,  while  he  could  stretch  himself  at 
ease,  in  anj  ungainly  attitude  be  pleased t  and  fee]  what  a 


TO  THE      TIDE      OP      FATE. 

refreshing  thing  it  was  to  throw  off  his  dignity  in  the  pre 
sence  of  the  only  one  with  whom  he  couid  do  so-— his  own 
familiar  mother.  Not  but  that  he  honored — nay,  revered  her 
—  but  that  he  enjoyed  only  in  her  house,  that  deep,  full 
st'iise  of  home  freedom,  which  not  only  her  son — but  to  a 
certain  degree  all  others  felt,  who  possessed  the  privilege  of 
the  lady's  friendship. 

This  afternoon,  then,  he  was  lying  at  his  ease  on  the  cool 
lounge  between  the  two  front  windows,  which  were  drawing 
strong  drafts  of  air,  and  flapping  the  festooned  curtains  lazily. 
He  had  thrown  himself  out  at  full  length  upon  the  lounge, 
in  the  most  delightfully  degage  attitude,  albeit  it  was  some 
what  angular  and  awkward — his  head  being  thrown  back 
over  the  end  of  the  lounge,  his  hands  clasped  above  his  fore 
head,  and  his  elbows  very  prominent,  one  foot,  minus  a  slip 
per,  hoisted  upon  the  window-sill,  and  the  other  slippered 
foot  dangling  on  the  carpet.  But  the  picturesque  beauty  of 
his  dark,  handsome  face,  atoned  for  all  the  rest.  His  mother 
sat  in  an  easy-chair  near  him,  with  her  feet  upon  a  footstool, 
and  a  workstand  by  her  side.  She  was  engaged  in  stitching 
wristbands — for  that  vigorous  woman  never  required  a  lounge 
in  the  day-time — but  though  she  never  took  one,  yet  she 

^never  blamed  the  indulgence  of  that  habit  in  others  for  which 
she  herself  felt  no  inclination.  She  was  the  most  liberal  and 
benevolent  of  all  human  beings,  in  every  act  of  her  daily  life. 
She  was  happy  in  seeing  others  comfortable  around  her.  She 
was  ever  pleased  to  see  them  enjoying  those  relaxations  which 
her  own  strong  nature  did  not  need.  Indeed,  courage  with 
out  asperitj',  fortitude  without  indurancy,  strength  without 
hardness,  self-denial  without  sternness,  power  without  arro 
gance,  formed  the  peculiar  excellence  of  her  character.  No 
wonder  that  her  son  revered  her.  No  wonder  it  had  bf en 
said  of  him,  that  he  never  could  love  a  woman  with  all  the 
power  of  his  nature,  unless  in  mental  and  moral  endowments 

-she  resembled  his  mother.  As  they  talked  together  this 
tncmoon,  the  hours  slipped  away  till  lato  in  the  evening, 
oefore  the  image  of  the  beautiful  Carolyn  had  power  to  draw 
him  from  the  tete  a  i^h.  During  the  afternoon  he  had  pre 
vailed  with  his  mother  to  receive  Carl  Kavanagh  as  her  over- 
necr — aii^  to  have  the  comfortable  log-cabin  which  had  been 


THE     TIDE     OF     FATE.  ,  71 

occupied  by  the  first  prtprietor  of  the  soil,  prepared  for  the 
reception  of  the  family. 

When  Archer  Clifton  at  length  arose  to  take  his  leave, 
he  pressed  his  mother  to  his  heart  with  so  much  fondness 
and  power,  that  the  quiet,  calm  lady  laughed,  a  little,  low, 
jolly  laugh,  and  jested  ahout  Carolyn's  jealousy — even  of  hid 
ELOther. 


Captain  Clifton  returned  to  White  Cliffs,  nnd  gave  him 
self  up  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  to  the  charms  of  Carolyn's 
conversation. 

The  next  day  was  one  of  festivity.  Mrs.  Cilfton,  of  Hard- 
bargain,  came  over  to  dine  at  White  Cliffs,  and  to  meet  a 
large  party  of  the  neighboring  gentry.  The  day  after  that, 
the  whole  party  dined  and  spent  the  evening  at  Hardbargain 
--and  this  was  the  commencement  of  a  series  of  neighbor 
hood  entertainments  in.  honor  of  the  approaching  marriage, 
vUiich  were  kept  up  for  several  weeks.  The  wedding  was 
to  come  off  in  the  course  of  a  month — the  present  delay  being 
o\fing  to  this  circumstance  :  old  Mr.  Clifton  had  sent  to 
Kugland,  by  the  good  ship  Ilockbridge,  Captain  Cater,  an 
extensive  order,  including  a  splendid  outfit  for  the  bride ; 
and  they  were  now  awaiting  to  hear  of  the  the  arrival  of  the 
Kockbridgc  at  Norfolk.  In  all  the  excitement  of  social 
enjoyment,  Captain  Clifton  had  found  time  to  ride  to  the 
mountain  hut,  and  arrange  with  Carl  Kavanagh  to  come  and 
take  the  situation  of  overseer  at  Hardbargain.  He  agreed 
to  pay  the  latter  a  liberal  salary,  and  to  provide  a  comfortable 
house  for  his  family.  One  thing  surprised  and  annoyed 
him.  Kate,  who  had  written  so  freely,  frankly,  almost  pre 
sumptuously  to  him — received  him  with  the  old  cold  shyness 
and  reserve — not  even  expressing  the  least  gratitude  for  the 
kindness  he  had  shown  in  getting  the  situation  for  her  brother, 
or  the  trouble  he  had  condescended  to  take  in  coming  per 
sonally  to  inform  them  of  it.  He  agreed  with  Carl,  that  tho 
latter,  with  his  grandfather  and  sister,  should  remove  to 
Flardbargain  in  the  course  of  the  week — and  on  his  own  part 
he  promised  to  have  the  log-house  prepared  for  their  re- 
neption.  He  shook  hands  with  the  old  man  and  Carl  cr, 
purling,  *Mit  when  he  offered  the  same  civility  tc  Kate,  &he 


72  THE      TIDE      CP      FATE. 

turned  pale  and  trembled,  and  when  he  took  her  hand  1 
found  it  cold. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  arc  well,  my  dear  girl — your  moun 
tain  air  does  not  engender  chills,  does  it?"  he  asked,  pressing 
the  cold  fingers. 

She  raised  her  eyes  one  brief  instant  to  his,  and  dropped 
them  quickly  again,  while  her  pale  check  and  brow  became 
suffused  with  crimson,  and  her  hand  that  he  held  in  hid  own 
throbbed  like  a  heart. 

"  When  we  get  you  to  the  plantation  you  will  be  better, 
my  dear  girl,"  said  Clifton,  kindly,  shaking  her  hand  and 
letting  it  go. 

Captain  Clifton  rode  away  full  of  thought — speculating 
more  upon  Catherine's  reserve  than  became  a  gentleman  of 
his  station  and  importance.  What  was  it  to  him  that  a  rustic 
girl  was  too  shy  to  express  in  person,  her  thanks  for  a  favor 
received,  even  though  she  had  "  screwed  her  courage  to  the 
sticking  place"  to  write  to  him  and  solicit  it?  Many  people, 
more  conversant  with  the  world  than  Catherine,  can  write 
that  which  they  never  can  bring  their  lips  to  say.  Besides 
it  was  no  matter — what  was  that  lowly  maiden  to  him,  thfl 
heir  of  Clifton,  and  the  prospective  husband  of  ihe  highest 
and  haughtiest  lady  in  the  land  ?  Yes — what  to  him  except 
an  object  of  his  high  patronage  could  be  that  girl  of — not 
only  "  humble  parentage,"  but  indubitably  low  birth  ?  He 
rode  on  dissatisfied,  he  knew  not  wherefore,  with  her  and 
himself. 

As  for  Catherine,  she  stood — lost — where  he  had  left  her 
— lost  to  the  consciousness  of  her  grandfather's  and  of  Carl's 
presence — with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  blaming  Jbcr- 
sclf  for  her  awkwardness  and  seeming  ingratitude  ;  wonder 
ing  if  he  blamed  her  too;  wondering  why  it  was  that  when 
^'10  saw  him  enter  -she  grew  cold  and  trembled  so ;  and  when 
lie  spoke  to  her  in  that  gentle  tone,  and  looked  at  her  with 
that  gentle  gaze — her  whole  nature  shrank  away  in  fear  and 
trepidation — and  though  she  would  have  given  the  world  foi 
the  ability  to  express  her  gratitude  and  regard,  all  power  of 
uttering  a  grateful  word  or  of  lifting  a  grateful  glance  to  his 
face,  deserted,  and  left  her  pale  and  trembling  before  the 
man  wnom  she  had  no  cause  to  fear,  and  every  reason  to 
wu«»t»  Catherine  stood  with  her  uiind  deep  in  this  problem, 


THE     TIDE     OF     FATE.-  73 

rmtil  the  harsh  voice  of  Carl  startled  her,  saying,  in  rasping 
tones — 

"  Well !  are  you  going  to  stand  there  burrowing  your 
3yes  in  the  ground  all  day  ?  A  pretty  way  you  have  behaved! 
1  Mease  goodness,  you've  got  no  more  manners  than  a  dumb 
Irute  .  I  take  my  oath  I  am  ashamed  of  you  i  Now  there 
was  Captain  Clifton,  a  gentleman  of  so  high  rank,  conde- 
R3cnding  to  come  here  and  tell  us  himself  of  the  place  he 
had  got  for  us,  even  after  your  unmannerly  refusal  of  that 
first  place — and  here  w«rc  you  with  not  one  word  of  thanks 
to  give — no  !  please  Heaven,  not  so  much  as  one  civil  look ! 
I  wonder  what  he'll  think  of  you  ?" 

"  What,  indeed  ?"  repeated  Catherine,  very  meekly. 

But  Carl  scarcely  recognized  her  voice.  It  was  no  longer 
the  childish  treble — it  was  the  deep,  full,  melodious  voice  of 
rich  womanhood. 

'•  Why,  the  kindest  thought  he  can  have  of  you,  will  be  to 
think  you  are  a  fool — that  is  all." 

u  Carl,  I  was  in  fear  of  him." 

"  in  fear  of  him  !  In  fear  of  Archer  Clifton  !  A  man 
whom  all  the  country  knows  to  be  of  the  highest  honor — 
and  one  to  whom  even  7,  cautious  as  /  am,  could  trust  you 
with,  to  go  from  one  end  of  the  world  to  the  other !" 

"  I  know  that,  Carl — I  know  he  is  a  gentleman  of  honor. 
but — but — I  tremble  before  him,  and  have  not  courage  to 
lift  my  eyes — " 

"  But  that  is  so  confoundedly  ridiculous,  now !  why  are 
you  afraid  of  him  ?" 

Kate  shook  her  head  and  waved  her  hand  in  that  quick, 
short  manner  which  was  peculiar  to  her,  and  turned  away — 
repeating  in  her  own  heart  the  question — "Yes,  why,  Wty, 
WHY  ?" 

Whether  the  maiden  found  an  answer  to  her  question  or 
not,  remained  a  secret  to  Carl :  this  was  the  first  and  last 
conversation  they  ever  held  on  the  subject;  and  whatever 
phenomena  the  opening  heart  of  the  maiden  revealed  to  hei- 
B:!f,  were  carefully  shrouded  away  from  the  eyes  of  all. 


How  beautiful  was  Carolyn  Clifton  !     So  fair,  so  purely, 
so  divinely  fair,  so  radiant,  so  refined,  so  stately  !     How  tit 


74  THE      TIDE      OP      FATE. 

a  consort  for  the  proud  Archer  Clifton '  How  his  he-art 
swelled  with  admiration  and  pride  as  lie  gazed  upon  her 
queenly  form — and  how  it  glowed  to  think  that  in  a  very 
few  days  that  fair  and  stately  lady,  who  never  deigned  to  own 
a  passion,  whose  love  he  only  guessed  by  her  proud  exaction 
of  exclusive  service,  who  scarcely  condescended  to  extend  her 
snowy  hand  to  his  salute — would  be  his  own,  his  own,  his  wife, 
hisjar^ertv,  his  other  self — whose  form  he  might  press  to 
TmThnsorii  inlthe  fnllgstJVcgdoin  ofjTggsggsion  !  And  as  he 
sat  by  her  side  and  held  hcHiiaMTarioTgazcd  upon  her  inac 
cessible,  delightful  beauty ;  oh  !  how  slowly,  slowly,  to  his 
impatient,  burning,  throbbing  heart — how  slowly,  dragged 
the  days  and  hours. 

Well — oh  very  well  would  it  have  been  for  Archer  Clifton, 
could  he  have  rent  bis  gaze  from  his  magnetic  idol  a  moment, 
and  caught  a  certain  pair  of  evil  eyes  upon  him.  Their 
baleful  glare  might  have  shed  upon  his  path  some  light  to  s*e 
the  pitfalls  in  his  way. 


TBB     OLD     MAN     AND     HIS     BRIDE.  75 


CHAPTER  V. 


There  is  a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends, 
Rough  hew  them 'as  we  will. — SHAKSPEARE. 

CAUL  KAVANAGH  and  his  sister  -were  settled  in  the  log* 
oabin  on  the  farm  of  Hardbargain.  Carl,  as  an  old  acquaint 
ance  of  the  mistress,  and  a  latciaborer  on  the  plantation,  fell 
readily  into  his  new  business  of  overseeing  it.  Catherine 
began  to  busy  herself  in  the  management  of  her  new  and 
very  comfortable  home.  Their  cabin  contained  a  sitting- 
room,  kitchen,  and  two  chambers.  Mrs.  Clifton  had  gratified 
her  own  kindly  and  benevolent  disposition  by  adding  several 
plain  articles  of  furniture  to  the  small  stock  possessed  by  the 
poor  family.  She  had,  besides,  given  Catherine  a  set  of  half- 
worn,  white  dimity  curtains,  and  a  pair  of  coarse,  home-made, 
white  counterpanes.  These  gave  an  air  of  neatness,  ap 
proaching — I  had  almost  said  refinement  to  the  sitting-room, 
and  two  little  bed-rooms.  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain, 
was  not  addicted  to  taking  sudden  likings — indeed,  though  a 
lady  of  perfect  frankness,  benevolence  and  liberality  of  judg 
ment,  she  was  cool  and  prudent — yet,  notwithstanding  this 
her  kindest  affections  were  at  once  attracted  towards  Kate 
It  is  true  she  had  been  prepared  to  think  well  of  the  child 
from  an  intimate  knowledge  of  her  brother  Carl's  honesty 
and  intelligence,  but  at  the  first  sight  of  Catherine,  the  noble 
countenance  of  the  mountain-girl  riveted  her  esteem.  There 
are  some  faces  which  we  know  at  a  giance  cannot  belong  to 
other  than  a  fine,  high-toned  character.  And  such  a  coun 
tenance  was  that  of  Catherine.  And  it  won  upon  the  lady 
every  day,  as  no  merely  beautiful  fase  could  ever  have  done. 
For  hers  was  a  brow — 

14  Where  every  god  did  seem  to  set  his  seal  to  give  the  worla  assurance 
of—" 

a  peerless  woman.     Often  Mrs.  Clifton  invited  Catherine  to 
bring  her  work  and  sit  with  her  through  the  afternoon,  and 


76  THE      OLD      MAN      AND      HIS      BRIDE. 

seldom  did  she  let  the  girl  return  without  placing  in  her  hand 
some  book  just  suitable  to  her  very  age,  arid  the  stage  of 
progress  of  her  'mind.     And  oh !  did  not  the  heart  of  the 
maiden   kindle  and  glow  with  love  and  admiration  for  tho 
noble  lady,  who,  without  one  particle  of  pride,  or^tho-kast 
prctorision  to  condesce^sT61P::::eo4idcsc.cnded  so  much .    And  so 
Citherine  grew  to  understand  and  appreciate  Mrs.  Clifton, 
and  to  look  upon  her  with  a  feeling  amounting  almo?t  to 
Wfli-hip.     How  happy  were  those  afternoons  spent  with  her 
'in   the  cool  arid  breezy  parlor.     How  deeply  grateful  was 
Kate  for  all  her  benefits — how  anxious  to  prove  her  grati 
tude — to  do  something  for  her  benefactress.     But  Kate  was 
very  shy,  and  her  love  only  spoke  in  the  stealthy  look  of  af 
fection  fixed  upon  the  lady,  and  withdrawn  with  a  deeply 
blushing  cheek  if  discovered.     But  by  these  tokens  sure  did 
Mrs.  Clifton  know  the  sweetness  and  the  tenderness,  the 
imodesty  and  the  sincerity  of  the  maiden's  hidden  heart.  And 
all  this  time  was  Catherine  wishing  for  the  ability  to  tell  her 
friend  how  much  she  thanked  and  loved  her.     One  afternoon 
she  mustered  up  the  courage  to  tell  the  lady  that  she  should 
'  like  to  read  to  her  any  time  that  it  would  be  agreeable  ;  also, 
that  she  had  some  skill  in  doing  up  laces  and  such  things 
'and  that  she  should  be  happy  if  she  could  assist  Mrs.  Clif 
ton  in  such  matters.     Mrs.  Clifton  placed  her  hand  affec 
tionately  on  Catherine's  head,  and  declined  all  her  offers  of 
service  excepi  that  which  related  to  the  reading — which  she 
accepted — hoping  thereby  to  improve  her  protege  in  many 
ways — to  direct  her  choice  of  books,  to  correct  her  elocution, 
and  to  awaken  her  understanding  of  what  she  read  by  ques 
tions  and  comments.     So  they  began  a  course  of  historical 
reading  with   Kollin's   Ancient  History.     And    that  which 
this  excellent  lady  commenced  as  a  duty  of  kindness  soon 
became  a  matter  of  daily  recreation.     It  was  indeed  a  rare 
intellectual  pleasure  to  arouse,  cultivate  and  hold  communion 
with  a  fresh,  vigorous,  original  enthusiastic  mind  like  that 
^of  Catherine.     And  those  afternoons  were  almost  as  happy 
for  the  lady  as  for  her  protege — happier  for  Catherine  they 
could  not  have  been.     Once,  the  shv  girl  was  entirely  car- 
rii.-d  out  of  herself  and  her  reverie  Dy  the  following  circum 
stance:    The  lady  had  inadvertently  let  fall  that  she  was  a 
Descendant  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  when  Kate,  hurried  beyond 


THE     OLD      MAN     AND      HIS     BRIDE.  77 

HJT  consciousness,  clasped  lier  hand  and  gazed  fervently  up 
in  her  face,  exclaiming — 

"  Descended  from  Oliver  Cromwell !  Descended  from 
Oliver  Cromwell,  that  friend  of  man  ?  that  friend  of  freedom  1 
Oh  '  it  is  no  wonder,  lady,  that  you  are  so  noble  .  so  supe 
rior  to  all  the  world  !" 

"  My  Catherine,"  said  the  lady,  calmly  withdrawing  hci 
hand  «  You  know  too  little — far  too  little  of  the  world,  to 
judgj)  how  I  stand  in  comparison  to  others.  And  what  know 
you  of  Oliver  Cromwell  ?  Our  reading  has  scarcely  reached 
the  invasion  of  Britain  by  the  Romans." 

"Oh,  lady!  lady!  lady!"  said  Kate,  warmly,  being  not 
yet  recovered  from  her  trance — "  lady — Carl  and  I  had  not 
many  books,  so  we  read  what  we  had  over  and  over  again  ! 
And  one  of  the  books  we  read  the  most  was  the  life  of  Oliver 
Cromwell!" 

"  You  are  generally  so  shy,  Catherine,  that  it  is  a  blind 
work  in  me  to  direct  your  studios,  not  knowing  what  you 
have  read  and  what  you  have  not." 

Yes — very  delightful  to  both  were  these  seasons,  and  verj 
strong  was  the  affection  beginning  to  cement  between  the 
tady  and  the  maiden.  There  was  only  one  thing  that  dis- 
rurbed  Catherine  in  the  perfect  enjoyment  of  these  after 
noons.  When  Archer  Clifton  would  surprise  them  by 
suddenly  entering  the  room,  and  throwing  himself  into 
an  arm-chair  or  upon  a  sofa,  her  heart  would  stand  still, 
ana  her  whole  frame  tremble  with  an  agitation  as  impossible 
to  comprehend  as  to  conquer.  And  yet  much  as  his 
arrival  disturbed  her,  his  departure  failed  to  make  her 
happy.  On  the  contrary,  it  left  a  strange  sadness  and  yearn 
ing  she  could  not  shake  off.  But  then  these  things  were  of 
rare  occurrence.  Captain  Clifton  very  seldom  found  time  to 
visit  his  mother — he  was  contented  to  know  that  she  had  a 
companion ; — and  as  for  Kate,  he  never  thought  of  her  at 
all — she  was  provided  for  and  forgotten.  Body,  soul,  and 
spirit  were  taken  up — absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  his 
promised  bride,  and  in  the  anticipation  of  her  possession. 
Catherine  knew  he  was  soon  to  be  married,  but  what  of  that  ? 
She  was  a  child,  with  no  knowledge  at  her  tender  years  to 
understand  her  own  heart,  and  no  skill  to  detine  its  firs^  de- 
velopmerts. 
5 


78  THE      OLD      MAN      AND      HIS      BRIDE. 

At  White  Cliffs  "  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell/ 
The  "  Rockbridge  "  was  at  length  telegraphed  at  Norfolk. 
A  letter  with  an  invoice  was  received  by  Mr.  Clifton,  who 
immediately  dispatched  a  special  messenger  to  receive  hia 
valuable  portion  of  the  cargo.  The  wedding-day  was  fixed 
for  that  day  week,  and  great  preparations  were  on  foot. 
The  gentry  of  the  neighboring  counties  were  invited.  The 
mansion-house  was  "  swept  and  garnished  "  from  garret  to 
cellar.  Frank  and  Zuleime  were  daily  rehearsing  their  parts 
as  bridesmaid  and  groomsman,  which  Frank  declared  to  be 
only  an  apprenticeship  to  the  business  of  enacting  bride  and 
groom.  Some  city  guests  from  Richmond  had  arrived  by 
particular  invitation,  four  or  five  days  before  the  expected 
wedding.  Last  of  all  came  the  wagon  with  the  boxes  from 
Norfolk.  They  were  opened  in  the  hall — such  treasure  of 
splendid  attire,  and  such  sets  of  jewelry !  And,  above  all, 
such  a  trousseau  for  the  bride — conspicuous  in  which  was  the 
bridal  dress  and  veil — the  bridal  dress  and  train  of  richest 
white  brocade  heavily  embroidered  with  silver,  after  the  gor 
geous  fashion  of  that  time — the  bridal  veil  of  finest  lace- 
the  orange  flower  wreath  of  pearls  and  emeralds — the  pearl 
embroidered  gloves  and  slippers — the  pearl  and  silver  mounted 
fan,  and  all  complete  in  correspondence.  And  richer  still 
was  a  ball-dress  of  blue  silver-embroidered  brocade,  with  its 
elegant  coiffure  of  ostrich  feathers,  the  sight  of  which  Zuleirne 
declared  was  enough  to  precipitate  any  girl  into  matrimon}T. 

Every  one  was  too  happy,  too  busy  and  too  self-important 
to  notice  the  deathly  hue  of  Georgia's  cheek,  far  less  to  de 
tect  the  fitful  glare  of  the  well-guarded  eye.  Every  one  but 
her  husband,  who,  leaving  his  daughters  and  their  maids  to 
unpack  the  boxes,  followed  her  into  her  own  chamber,  saying, 
as  he  fondly  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder — 

"  My  darling  doesn't  seem  to  be  merry." 

She  shrank — shuddered  from  his  touch,  exclaiming,  almost 
enrilly — 

•*  Leave  me!" 

*»  Leave  you,  my  dear ! — my  child . — why  leave  you  ?"  he 
asked,  passing  his  hand  gently  around  her  shouldeis. 

"Leave  me.  leave  me!"  she  cried,  sharply,  casting  off 
the  arm  and  springing  back — her  cheek  blanched,  her  teeth 
mapping,  her  eyes  sparkling  fire,  more  like  a  terrified  wolf 


THE     OLD     MAN     AND     HIS     BRIDE.  79 

than  a  woman,  "  have  I  not  told  you  never,  never  to  come 
near  me  in  my  dark  hour?" 

"  But  why  should  my  cherished  pet  have  dark  hours  ?"  h« 
persisted,  approaching  her. 

"  Keep  off!  keep  off!  old  man,  you  know  not  what  yon 
do!" 

"  Yes,  I'm  old — I  know  I'm  old— I  wish  I  wasn't,  for  I 
love  you,  my  darling.  Yes,  I  love  you  more  tenderly  and 
less  selfishly  than  if  I  was  younger.  I  love  you  entirely — 
altogether —  your  little  dark  face — your  little  fiery  ways — • 
your  little  outbursts  of  temper  that  no  one  sees  but  me,  who 
look  upon  it  with  indulgent  eyes.  "Would  a  young  man  love 
you  so  tenderly,  Georgia  ?" 

"  Driveller  !  you  make  me  loathe  you  !  t  My  little  fiery 
ways.'  *  My  little  outbursts  of  temper,'  forsooth !  How 
little  do  you  understand  me  !  You  sting  my  soul  to  frenzy 
with  your  dotage,  and  then  twaddle  about  liking  my  little 
outbursts  of  temper,'  forsooth." 

"  Dotage !  Yes !  I  really  do  suppose  you  consider  it 
dotage  !" 

"  Yes  !  drivelling !  idiotic  !  imbecile  dotage  !'' 

"  Yes  !  I  do  suppose  you  think  it  is !  T  atn  too  old  for  you, 
Georgia — 1  know  it,  alas  !  too  well,  now  that  it  is  too  late— 
and  yet  you  did  not  raise  the  least  objection  to  becoming  my 
wife,  Georgia." 

"  Ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  ha !  Objection, r  I  was  but 
fifteen  years  of  age  when  you  bribed  me  to  your  arms  with  a 
set  of  jewels,  and  a  gold  mounted  work-box  !  I  was  a  child, 
delighted  with  glittering  toys  !  and  fond,  yes !  very  fond  of 
the  grandfatherly  old  man  that  poured  them  into  my  lap ! 
Did  that  child-fondness  deceive  you  ?" 

"  It  did,  it  did  !  You  were  very  fond  of  me  when  yoij 
were  a  child !  Would  to  G  od  I  could  have  spell-bound  you 
to  that  age,  so  you  never  could  have  grown  older  !  Oh  !  I 
could  find  it  in  heart  to  shame  my  manhood,  to  shame  my 
gray  hairs  and  weep  !  I  should  not  have  married  you,  Geor 
gia,  child !  I  should  not  have  sacrificed  you  to  my  selfish 
love — yet,  no !  It  was  not  selfish  love '.  I  wished  your 
greatest  good.  I  wished  to  surround  you  for  life  with  all  the 
means  and  appliances  of  happiness.  I  wished  to  lavish 
wealth  upon  yu — ay,  wealth  of  gold,  and  wealth  of  aflfec- 


80  THE      OLD      MAN      AND      HIS      BRIDE. 

tion,  too :     I  wished  to  give  you  a  sumptuous  home,  splendid 
apparel,  costly  jewels,  carriages,  servants — all  those  things 
which  women  value  so  much,  and  scheme,  and  plot,  and  en-    i 
deavor  for  so  perseveringly !     I  wished  to  give  them  all  tu    ; 
my  darling,  before  she  should  have  time  to  feel  the  need  of    ; 
them !" 

«Ha!  ha!   ha!  ha!  ha!"  bitterly  laughed  the  girl.  "Oh! 
do  you  know  what  women  value  more  than  gold  and  jewels,  1 
and  dress,  and  carriages,  and  horses,  and  servants  ? — I'll  *ell  | 
you — the  ungalled,  unfettered  heart's  freedom  !" 

"  I  know  it !  Oh  !  I  know  it !  My  love  has  destroyed  } 
your  happiness.  Oh,  Georgia !  did  you  never  see  a  beautiful  ( 
bird,  and  long  to  have  it  for  your  own,  only  to  caress  and  '. 
pamper  and  pet  it  ?  Oh,  Georgia !  my  child,  my  pet,  my  I 
bird  !  that  was  the  reason  I  wanted  you  !  I  wanted  to  cherish, ; 
and  fondle,  and  make  you  happy  !" 

"  Ah-h  I  And  did  you  never  see  such  a  bird  as  you  spoke 
of,  in  spite  of  all  the  petting,  and  pampering,  and  fondlings, 
beat  out  its  weary  life  against  its  prison  bars  and  die '?" 

"  Don't  die,  Georgia  !  Don't  die  !  Hope  !  Alas  !  I 
wished  only  to  make  you  happy — I  have  failed !  I  have 
made  you  miserable!" 

"  <  Miserable ,'  ruined  !  despairing !  desperate !"  she  cried, 
wildly  wringing  her  hands. 

"  Nay,  not  despairing,  Georgia !  I  am  an  old  man,  as  you 
justly  said — quite  an  old  man.     I  have  not  very  long  to  live, 
and  when  I  die,  Georgia,  you  will  still  be  a  very  young  wo 
man.     Bethink  you,  you  are  scarce  seventeen — in  ten  years 
more  you  will  be  but  twenty-seven,  and  is  it  even  likely  that  I 
shall  live  so  long  as  that  ?     No  !     And  after  my  heart  is   • 
cold,  and  my  head  is  laid  low,  Georgia  will  be  a  beautiful  j 
young  widow — ay,   and  with  a  rich  jointure,  too !     I  shall  J 
take  care  of  that!" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  pathetic!  I  tell  you,  that  if  you 
were  to  die  to-morrow,  my  life  is  not  the  less  ruined-— de 
spairing  !"  bitterly  exclaimed  the  young  woman. 

"  Nay,  but  that  cannot  be,  Georgia.     Ruined  ?     Despair 
ing  ?     What !    at  seventeen  years  of  age  ?     Nonsense,  my  I 
love!     Nothing  but  crime  can  make  the  youthful  despair*!  • 
Nonsense,  my  child  !     You  are  hysterical !"  he  said,  moving 
towards  her  with  outstretched  arms 


THE     OLD     MAN     AND     HIS     BRIDE.  SI 

"  Dotard !  driveller!"  she  cried,  turniig  fiercely  upon 
him,  with  eyes  blazing  with  scorn  and  malignity.  "  Imbecile! 
Will  you  leave  me  to  myself?" 

The  old  gentleman  turned  away,  walked  several  times 
slowly  up  and  down  the  floor,  and  finally  saying — 

"  Yes,  I  know  I  am  a  dotard  !  I  know  it,  and  I  grow 
ashamed  of  dotage — "  clapped  his  hat  upon  his  head  and 
walked  out. 

7*"Bitterly  did  the  old  man  rpie  his  folly,  yet,  alas  !  he  knew 
'  f  but  half  the  cause  of  that  ingrate  and  wretched  woman's 
fierce  outbreaks  of  temper. 

She  followed  his  retreating  form,  with  a  glaring  of  mingler 
rage  and  fear,  gnawing  her  white  lips,  while  she  muttered,  in 
a  low,  fierce  tone — 

"  I  could  tear  my  heart  out !  I  could  bite  my  tongue  off, 
for  thus  betraying  me !  Shall  I  ever  have  power  to  chain 
and  guide  the  tiger  in  me  ?  But  he  with  his  doting,  and  they 
with  their  dalliance,  goad  me  to  extremity'?  Eut"  she  ex 
claimed,  clenching  her  fist,  setting  her  teeth,  and  glaring, 
while  all  her  countenance  darkened  with  rage  and  anguish — 
"  JButj  before  they  shall  MARRY  under  my  very  eyes,  and  live 
here,  maddening  my  soul  and  senses,  day  and  night,  by  the 
view  of  their  love  and  joy,  I  will  pull  down  ruin  on  the  heads 
of  all !  Yes,  although  myself  should  be  the  first  to  fall !" 
She  paused  in  silent  thought  some  time,  then  rising,  said, 
"  Down,  tiger  heart !  Down  !  crouch  !  Be  smooth,  brow  ! 
Be  smiling,  lip  !  Be  tender,  eyes  !  Be  soft,  voice !  And 
now  to  go  and  pacify  the  old  man,  before  his  vexation  betrays 
me  to  the  others.  ~T£h  !  it  is  well  they  have  never  witnessed 
my  excitement!  Come!  in  time  I  shall  learn  to  curb  wild 
impulses,  and  only  spring  upon  my  prey  when  time  and  place 
is  fit!" 

Soft,  smooth,  fascinating,  seductive,  she  glided  from  her 
chamber  out  into  the  upper  piazza,  where  the  old  man's  slow 
and  heavy  footfall  was  heard — she  glided  after  him,  and  with 
an  air  of  sweet,  familiar,  childish  freedom,  she  raised  bis  arm, 
and  putting  her  beautiful  head  under  it,  drew  his  hand 
around  her  neck  and  over  her  bosom,  and  looking  up  plead 
ingly,  simply,  into  his  benevolent  face,  murmured,  merelv— 

«  I  am  so  sorry   Mr.  Clifton  !" 


82  THE      OLD      MAN      AND      HIS      BRIDE 

"  Never  mind  '  never  mind,  my  dear !"  said  the  old  gen 
tleman,  stooping  and  kissing  her  brow. 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  !  so  sorry!" 

"You,  child!  Do  you  think  I  mind  your  little  petu 
lance?" 

"  Oh !  you  are  good,  you  are  good.  Indeed,  I'm  quite 
nnworthy  of  you !"  she  whispered  softly,  pressing  her  head 
against  his  bosom,  and  clinging  close. 

"  You,  darling !"  cried  the  old  man,  stroking  her  curls  in 
delight. 

"  I  am  such  an  irritable,  petulant  child !  I  am  sure  no  one 
would  have  patience  with  me  but  you — that  is  the  reason  I 
love  you  so !" 

"  You  do  love  me  then  ?"  gazing  fondly  in  her  witching 
face. 

"  Oh,  dearly !  dearly !  look  in  my  eyes  and  see  if  1 
don't!" 

"  Yes !  I  know  you  do,  my  pet !  And  I  love  you 
entirely !" 

"  Ah!  how  can  you  then  !     I  have  so  many  faults  !" 

"I  love  your  little  faults,  and  all!  Come!  Brighten 
ap !  Never  mind !  I  love  to  see  my  darling  bright  and 
cheerful." 

"  Ah !  how  can  I,  when  I  remember  my  fit  of  ill 
temper!" 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,  my  love !  That's  the  reason  why 
I  love  you  '  For  those  very  little  gusts  of  temper  !  They  are 
followed  by  such  a  sweet  re-action !  and  then  my  child  is  so 
frank,  so  ingenuous  in  her  little  penitence  !" 

"  Ah !  But  then  I  am  such  a  spoiled  child !  And 
always  was !  Father  spoiled  me.  And  now  you  spoil  me 
worse  than  ever !" 

"  My  sweet!  you  can't  be  spoiled  !  you  are  so  ingenuous! 
But  now  tell  me,  what  vexed  my  little  girl  this  evening? 
Come,  let  me  hear?"  asked  the  old  man,  caressing  the 
syren. 

"  Well !  now  it  was  this !  I  thought  you  loved  Carolyn 
and  Zuleime  better  than  me!"  replied  the  artful  woman, 
gazing  half-reproachfully,  half-pleadmgly  up  mto  his  smiling 
face. 

"  Love  Carolyn  and  Zuleime  better  than  you  I     Why  you 


THE     OLD     MAN     AND     HIS     BRIDE.  83 

jealous  little  witch !"  exclaimed  the  old  man  in  rapture. 
"  Love  them  more  than  you  !  Why,  I  have  to  pray  Hea 
ven's  pardon  daily,  for  not  loving  tohem  a  hundredth  part  as 
much  ! — kiss  me !" 

Georgia  nerved  her  loathing  heart  to  give  the  demanded 
kiss,  and  then  went  and  joined  the  party  in  the  parlor,  a*? 
beautiful,  smooth,  seductive,  dangerous  as  ever;  while  the 
old  man  walked  up  and  down  the  piazza,  smiling  to  himself 
and  saying — 

"  She  is  a  child — nothing  but  a  child ! — a  sweet,  willful, 
witching  child!''  J___^~ —  — 

Alas  !  little  recking  of  the  household  treachery,  the  house- 
hold  wreck  that <(  child  "  was  preparing ! 


84  THE      UUP  TIT  RED      TIE. 


CHAPTER  Vi. 

THE   RUPTURED   TIE. 

Alas !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth, 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truthj 

And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above, 
And  life  is  thorny,  and  youth  is  vain. 

And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 
Doth  work  like  madness  on  the  brain 

WHAT  ruin  a  single  spark  of  fire  may  spread,  if  carelessly 
or  designedly  dropped  amid  combustible  or  inflammable 
material. 

What  desolation  a  single  word  may  cause,  if  thoughtlessly 
or  intentionally  let  fall  into  a  passionate,  impetuous  heart. 

The  three  scenes  I  am  about  to  describe,  took  place  very 
nearly  as  they  are  related. 

But  first  a  few  words  of  explanation. 

I  feel  that  I  have  scarcely  done  justice  to  the  character 
of  Carolyn  Clifton,  in  presenting  her  only  by  that  cold  and 
frosty  crust  of  pride,  which  was  but  the  superficial  covering 
of  a  high-spirited,  honorable  nature.  Her  manners  were  cold 
and  haughty — almost  scornful  and  arrogant — it  is  but  too 
true.  And  most  people,  her  family  included,  supposed  her 
to  be  destitute  of  sensibility.  Perhaps  she  was  lacking  in 
warmth  of  affection  for  her  immediale-domestic  circle.  Her 
whole  heart,  with  all  its  deepy  profound,  untold,  unguessed 
devotion,  was  given  to  Archer  Clifton.  And  while  secretly 
bestowing  upon  him  her  entire,  undivided  love — she  openly 
exacted  a  full,  unshared  return — an  exclusive  worship. 

In  truth,  in  her  proud,  secret  heart,  she  was  a  little  jealous 
of  Clifton's  affection  for  his  mother !  She  did  not  love  her 
father  so  devotedly  !  -why  should  Clifton  worship  his  zrco- 
ther  so?  To  this  jealousy  she  had  never  given  breath,  of 
course — indeed,  to  her  own  passionate  love,  she  hctd  never 
yet  g'veii  word — preferring,  in  her  high  toned,  luaiden  pride. 


THE     RUPTURED     TIE.  85 

to  leave  it  to  be  inferred.  She  had  never  even  looked  her 
jealousy,  yet  Mrs.  Clifton,  with  the  fine  instinct  of  a  woman 
and  a  mother,  guessed  it,  and  in  her  presence,  skillfully 
eluied  all  demonstrations  of  affection  from  her  son.  And  so 
well  was  the  proud,  exacting  spirit  of  Miss  Clifton  known  in 
her  own  family,  that  even  the  sprightly  and  mischievous  out 
law,  Zuleime,  dared  take  no  childish  liberty  with  her  sister's 
betrothed.  Thus  it  happened  that  Frank  Fairfax's  unlucky 
jest  had  deeply  offended  the  arrogant  lady,  the  more  espe 
cially  as  in  that  day,  and  in  that  neighborhood,  the  term 
"  mountain-girl,"  was  too  often  the  mildest  name  for  an  evil 
woman. — This  fact,  of  course,  Frank  was  not  acquainted 
with.  And,  therefore  it  was,  that  he  could  not  understand 
Carl  Kavanagh's  excessive  anxiety  to  send  his  young  sister 
off  the  mountain  ;  and  could  not  in  the  least  comprehend  the 
intense  indignation  of  Miss  Clifton,  and  the  difficulty  Arcner 
Clifton  had  in  restoring  her  good  humor.  Even  now,  Caro 
lyn  Clifton  had  not  forgotten  the  circumstance.  And  truth 
to  tell,  she  was  not  well  pleased  at  the  continued  interest 
displayed  by  Captain  Clifton  for  his  protege,  in  bringing  her 
and  her  family  upon  his  mother's  plantation.  But  she  wag 
too  proud  again  to  allude  to  the  subject.  Carolyn  Clifton 
had  never  known  a  care  or  a  contradiction  in  her  life.  Her 
hearc  was  a  sound,  strong,  high,  proud  thing,  and  therefore, 
very  like  to  break  itself  without  fear,  full  tilt  against  the  first 
impediment  that  opposed  it.  She  was,  besides,  like  all  women 
of  her  fair  complexion  and  fine  tempered  nerves — "  a  dis- 
cerner  of  spirits."  And  this  quick,  delicate,  and  sure  per 
ception  never  failed  her,  except  when  she  was  agitated  and 
blinded  by  inward  passion.  Thus,  perhaps,  quite  uncon 
sciously,  she  read  the  heart  of  her  betrothed — and  knew  it 
better  than  he  did  himself — and  thus,  perhaps,  involuntarily, 
sLe  afterwards  acted  on  that  knowledge. 

At  all  events,  there  was  quite  enough  combustible  material 
on  hand  for  a  single  spark  to  ignite  it  and  spread  a  confla 
gration. 

And  the  spark — and  many  sparks  were  not  wanting.  A 
thoughtless  jest  of  Frank's — a  slight  word  dropped  by 
Georgia  at  exactly  the  right,  or  rather  the  wrong  time  and 

place — and  the  whole  neighborhood  of  R County 

vera  agog  with  gossip.  And  Captain  Clifton  and  his  pro- 


86  THE      RUPTURED       TIE. 

fcege,  were  the  subjects.  Some,  right  in  the  face  of  his  ^ell- 
known  engagement  to  Miss  Clifton,  did  not  hesitate  to  say 
that  she,  his  protege,  was  a  beautiful  girl,  whom  he  intended 
to  educate  and  marry,  and  that  his  republican  mother  was 
highly  in  favor  of  the  plan.  Others  told  how  tastefully  tho 
overseer's  house  had  been  •  furnished  and  adorned,  and — 
without  the  slightest  foundation  in  truth — how  many  hours  a 
day  Captain  Clifton  now  spent  with  his  interesting  pupil. 
The  suspicious  and  malignant  circulated  a  still  darker  tale, 
and  wondered  how  long  it  would  last,  and  how  it  would  all 
end.  And  then  they  denounced  Captain  Clifton,  blamed  his 
mother,  and  pitied  Miss  Clifton !  And  all  this  time,  while 
the  whole  county  was  ringing  with  various  and  contradictory 
reports,  the  persons  most  concerned  knew  nothing  about  it. 

Until  tho  day  before  the  wedding,  it  was  suddenly 
brought  to  the  knowledge  of  both  parties,  in  the  following 
manner : — 

The  company  assembled  at  Clifton,  consisting  of  old  Mr. 
Clifton's  brother-in-law  and  sister,  Judge  and  Mrs.  Cabell, 
of  Richmond,  with  their  three  daughters  and  son,  Frank 
Fairfax,  Zuleime,  and  Captain  Clifton,  had  gone  over  to  dine 
by  previous  engagement  with  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain. 
Carolyn  Clifton  had  been  compelled,  by  a  slight  headache, 
to  remain  at  home.  And  Georgia  had  chosen  to  stay  to  keep 
her  company.  The  two  ladies  sat  in  the  dressing-room  of 
Miss  Clifton.  Carolyn  was  silent  and  abstracted,  yet  her 
countenance  betrayed  more  of  inward  joy  than  she  suspected. 
A  great  contrast  was  her  fair,  placid  face,  to  that  of  Georgia, 
dark,  and  traversed  by  spasms  of  pain-like  clouds  hurling 
past  a  stormy  sky.  But  if  Carolyn  lifted  her  fair  lashes  a 
moment,  instantly  that  dark  face  cleared,  ere  its  expression 
could  be  detected.  At  length  she  ventured,  in  a  sweet  tone, 
to  say — 

"  Carolyn,  my  dear,  to  morrow  is  your  wedding  day.  And 
— but — there  is  something  which  you  ought  to  know  before 
hand,  and  which  for  weeks  past  I  have  teen  trying  to  gain 
courage  to  tell  you." 

"  Well,  madam  ?"  asked  Miss  Clifton,  slowly  lifting  her 
snowy  lids. 

" 1  should — that  is,  I  might  expose  myself  to  the  resent 
ment  of  all  your  family  by  telling  you." 


THE     RUPTURED     TIE.  87 

"  Then  you  had  best  not  tell  me,  madam." 

"And  yet  you  ought  to  be  informed,  and  must.  1 
should  never  forgive  a  friend  for  keeping  such  a  secret  from 
me." 

A  vague  fear  and  tremor  seized  upon  Carolyn  Clifton,  ana' 
kept  her  silent.  The  dark  lady  went  on — 

"  I  think  the  honor,  the  happiness,  even  the  tranquillity 
of  your  married  life,  depends  upon  your  previous  knowledge 
of  this  circumstance." 

"  Madam — the  honor,  happiness,  and  tranquillity  of  my 
married  life  pass  into  the  keeping  of  my  husband,  Captain 
Clifton,  and  in  him  I  have  the  utmost  confidence,"  remarked 
Carolyn,  coldly  and  proudly,  though,  alas  ! — not  truly. 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  unnecessarily  mar  that  con 
fidence  !  But,  my  love,  you  will  bo  sure  to  hear  it,  when 
too  late,  and  from  less  friendly  lips  than  mine!" 

"  Will  it  please  you,  then,  madam,  to  speAk  out  frankly 
and  honestly,  and  let  us  know  what  it  is,"  said  Carolyn, 
scornfully,  at  the  same  time  that  her  heart  was  rising  with 
emotion. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  guess  ?" 

"  I  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  do  so,  Mrs.  Clifton." 

"  Ah  !  you  have  always  treated  me  with  scorn  and  hauteur,, 
Miss  Clifton.  Yet  that,  alas !  does  not  relieve  me  of  the 
painful  duty  of  putting  you  on  your  guard.  In  a  word,  then, 
do  you  understand  the  nature  of  the  relations  subsisting 
between  Captain  Clifton  and  the  sister  of  his  mother's  over 
seer?" 

The  brow  of  Carolyn  Clifton  flushed  crimson — but  she 
answered,  coldly — 

"  Madam,  I  believe  that  young  person  has  been  the  object 
of  Captain  Clifton's  benevolence." 

"  Ah  !  I  believe  so  too '  His  benevolence  is  certainly  in 
disputable,  and  his  honor  should  be  above  suspicion !"  ex 
claimed  Georgia,  fervently. 

"  Madam — it  is!"  coldly  replied  Miss  Clifton. 

"  Yes — and  yet,  Carolyn,  my  love,  a  poor  and  beautiful 
young  maiden  cannot  continue  to  be  the  recipient  of  a  hand- 
aome  young  officer's  beneficence  with  credit  to  herself,  honol 
to  him,  or  peace  or  safety  to  his  wife !" 


88  THE       RUPTURED       TIE. 

"  Is  she  so  very  beautiful  ?"  was  the  question  sun  ^ecl 
from  the  haughty  girl. 

"  Passing  beautiful,  I  think,  Carolyn,  and  this  it  is  that 
makes  the  country  gentlemen  jest  so  about  the  matter.  They 
give  a  far  different  motive  than  benevolence  to  the  kindness 
of  Captain  Clifton  to  his  lovely  charge.  /  know  that  they 
do  him  gross  injustice  !  But  this  thing  should  not  go  on.  It 
is  a  dangerous  relation — dangerous  to  Archer's  own  fidelity, 
dangerous  to  your  peace,  and  most  dangerous  of  all,  to  the 
poor  girl's  reputation.  I  advise  you  to  speak  to  Archer.  I 
would  do  so  myself,  but  it  is  too  delicate  a  matter  for  me  to 
speak  to  a  young  gentleman  about.  Now  in  these  palmy 
days  of  courtship,  he  may  listen  to  you  as  he  never  would, 
perhaps,  afterwards,  and  you  will  be  able  to  prevail  with  him 
to  send  this  dangerous  young  beauty,  his  protege,  away. 
Yes !  and  you  may  tell  Archer  that  /  advise  this,  for  the 
good  of  all  parties.  Tell  him  that  the  whole  neighborhood 
is  ringing  with  gossip  that  may  become  slander.  Tell  him 
that  I  say  the  parties  most  concerned  in  this  rumor,  or  in 
any  rumor,  will  be  ever  the  last  to  hear  it.  Tell  him  that  I, 
his  friend,  Georgia,  venture  to  do  him  this  service,  informing 
him  through  you.  Let  there  be  no  concealments.  Let  all 
be  open  candor.  I  did  feel  afraid,  when  I  began  to  tell  you 
this — but  now  it  is  out,  I  feel  relieved — I  have  more 
courage." 

"Madam!"  said  Carolyn,  more  haughtily  than  before — 
"  Captain  Clifton  is  quite  capable  of  directing  his  own  con 
duct  !  And  if  he  were  not,  I  should  never  resign  to  him  the 
future  (xmjrol  of  minej.  And,  farthermore,  madam !"  bha 
added,  sarcastically,  "  I  too  highly  honor  the  man  about  to 
become  my  husband — I  have  too  much  self-respect  and  deli 
cacy,  to  inquire  into  the  nature  of  Captain  Clifton's  indi 
vidual  and  private  amusements,  whether  they  relate  to 
hounds,  horses,  or  beggar  girls  !  I  leave  such  investigation 

to the  daughter  of  the  sign-painter!"  and  with  an  air 

of  the  greatest  possible  scorn  and  arroganc  •  she  arose,  and 
left  the  room.  Yet  under  that  proud,  disdainful  bearing,  a 
thousand  scorpions,  of  dpubt  and  jealousy,  maddened  her 
soul.  She  went  at  once  into  her  own  room,  and  having 
locked  the  door,  that  no  rash  intruder  should  look  upon  hei 
weakness,  gave  herself  up  to  the  anguish  of  her  emotions-- 


THE     RUPTURED     TIE.  89 

NOW  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor,  wringing  her  hands  in 
distraction — now  throwing  herself,  face  downward,  upon  the 
bed,  in  despair.  And  yet  she  had  no  confidence  in  Mrs, 
Clifton's  honesty  of  purpose  either 


[n  the  meantime,  the  party  assembled  at  Hardbargain 
were  enjoying  themselves  and  the  hospitalities  of  their  hostess, 
to  the  fullest  extent. 

The  late  dinner  was  over ;  the  ladies  were  lounging  about 
in  arm-chairs,  or  on  sofas,  in  the  breezy  parlor — dozing, 
reading,  or  chatting  in  low  tones,  all  serenely  enjoying  that 
pleasant  feeling  of  home  freedom  and  repose,  into  which  Mrs. 
Clifton  ever  charmed  her  guests. 

The  gentlemen  had  left  their  wine,  and  in  parties  of  two 
and  three  were  strolling  about  the  shady  yard,  01  out 
through  the  fields  and  orchards,  to  cool  their  heads,  previous 
to  joining  the  ladies  at  the  tea-table. 

Archer  Clifton,  with  his  cousin,  Major  Charles  Cabcll,  and 
Frank  Fairfax,  took  the  wooded  path  leading  down  the  South 
side  of  the  ridge  to  a  fine  spring  in  the  hollow.  They  came 
to  a  log  cabin,  half  hidden  by  surrounding  and  overhanging 
elms — and  literally  covered  with  climbing  and  creeping  vines, 
Before  the  door  sat  a  girl,  spinning  on  a  little  wheel,  who,  at 
the  first  glimpse  of  strangers,  instantly  arose,  and  taking  up 
her  wheel,  retired  into  the  house.  Captain  Clifton  left  his 
companions,  and  going  up  to  the  door,  called,  saying — 

"  Catherine,  my  good  girl,  bring  me  a  gourd  here." 

Kate  Kavanagh  came,  and  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  and  her  face  suffused  with  a  deep  blush,  handed  the 
required  article,  and  instantly  disappeared  within. 

"By  all  the  angels,  what  a  fine  face!"  exclaimed  Major 
Cabell,  gazing  after  her. 

Archer  Clifton  sho ':  a  quick,  piercing  glance  at  the  speaker, 
who,  meeting  it  full  as  he  turned,  laughed,  exclaiming,  as  if 
a  new  discovery  had  been  made — 

"  Oh  !  Ay  !  Soh  !  you  are  Mere,  are  you  ?  So  then, 
this  ia  the  mountain-beauty,  the  hidden  treasure  of  Archer 
Clifton,  that  has  set  all  the  country  ladies  agog  w'th  scandal. 
Mid  all  the  country  gentlemen  mad  with  envy  ?" 

The  hot  blood  rusb«d  to  Clifton's  brow. 


90  THE      RUPTURED      TIE. 

"  Oh  !  now,  don't  be  jealous  !  Don't  be  alarmed !  You* 
treasure  is  safe  from  me — though,  by  all  the  queens  of  chi 
valry,  hers  is  a  noble  face — a  face  to  bleed  and  die  for ! 
None  of  yoTir  pretty  lily  and  rose  baby  beauties  that  may  be 
Been  by  hundreds  anywhere — but  a  noble  girl,  fit  for  a  mon 
arch's  love  and  counsellor!" 

In  an  instant  Archer  Clifton  strode  up  and  stood  with 
bended  brow  and  folded  arms  before  him  ;  and  said,  in  a  low, 
deep,  stern  tone  of  concentrated  passion — 

"  You  are  my  relative,  friend,  guest !  Your  three-fold 
claim  upon  my  forbearance  should  protect  you  from  any  re 
sentment  for  words  spoken  against  my  honor.  But,  I  charge 
you,  retract  your  words  !  And  if  you  harbor  one  single  sus 
picion  against  that  young  girl,  you  are  a  villain  !  S'death, 
sir !  Has  the  world  come  to  such  a  pass,  and  is  the  honor 
of  Archer  Clifton  of  so  little  worth,  that  he  cannot  protect  a 
poor  young  maiden  without  injury  to  her  ?  By  Heaven !  be 
warned  !  For  if  you  do  but  breathe  one  breath  to  dim  the 
lustre  of  that  girl's  good  name — by  the  good  Lord  that  made 
us  good,  and  the  demon  that  turned  us  to  evil !  relative, 
friend  and  guest  as  you  are,  I  will  slay  and  drag  you  to  her 
feet  to  die !" 

So  sudden,  so  mighty — so  appalling  was  this  burst  of  pas 
sion,  that  for  a  moment  after  it  was  over,  Cabell  and  Fairfax 
stood  as  if  transfixed  with  astonishment.  Then  Cabell,  in 
the  frankest  way  in  the  world,  held  out  his  hand,  exclaim 
ing— 

"  I  like  that !  D— d  if  I  don't !  Come,  Clifton— I  was 
wrong,  forgive  me  !  give  me  your  hand  !  By  my  soul,  T  like 
a  man  that  will  stand  up  for — there !  by  all  that's  fatal,  I 
had  liked  to  have  tripped  again  !" 

"  Understand  me,  sir,"  said  Archer  Clifton,  sternly.  "  You 
know  me  to  be  on  the  eve  of  marriage  with  our  cousin.  She 
is  my  liege  lady,  and  never  for  one  instant  in  thought,  word 
or  deed,  has  my  allegiance  swerved  from  her  service.  And 
more,  gentlemen,  both !  A  single  word  touching  the  fair 
fume  of  her — of  Catherine,  I  mean — touches  me  home." 

They  were  here  overtaken  by  two  or  three  other  gentle 
men,  and  the  conversation  took  another  and  less  perilous 
turn,  as  they  wandered  down  towards  the  mineral  spring. 
After  slaking  their  thirst,  the  party  divided.     Major  Cabell 


THE     RUPTURED     TIE.  91 

j*,./ned  the  three  latest  comers,  and  Clifton  and  Fairfax  turned 
towards  the  farm-house.   , 

'•You  seem  to  be  moody  this  evening,  Archer,"  said 
Frank,  after  they  had  pursued  their  way  for  some  time  in 
silence. 

"  Yes — that  foolish  jest  of  Cabell's  has  annoyod  *ne.  Ti 
is  villainous  !  It  is  diabolical !  Such  light  words,  in  which 
a  young  girl's  fair  fame  is  laughed  and  jested  away,  may  be 
thoughtless,  but  they  should  be  punished  with  death !" 

"  That's  a  harsh  sentence  !" 

"  A  just  one  !" 

"You  feel  this  bitterly!" 

"  I  DO.  For  her  name  has  been  used  !  Frank !  you  be 
lieve  that  if  a  word  of  disrespect  were  to  be  breathed  by  any 
man  against  my  mother,  I  would  lay  that  man  dead  at  my 
feet  without  an  instant's  grace  ?" 

"  Yes  !  I  thoroughly  believe  that  you  would  send  such  an 
one  to  his  last  account  in  a  great  hurry." 

"  And  if  any  one  were  but  to  look  an  insult  to  Catherine, 
it  would  rouse  all  the  ferocity  of  the  demon  in  me  to  over 
throw  and  trample  him  to  death  !" 

"  <  All  this  I  steadfastly  believe,'  as  the  catechism  say.s 
about  total  depravity!" 

"  And,  Frank  !  you,  yourself  have  sometimes  spoken  flip 
pantly  of  my  regard  for  that  girl — never  so  insultingly  as 
Cabell  did  just  now,  else  you  would  not  now  possess  my 
esteem  and  friendship — but  you  have  trifled  with  the  subject. 
Now  understand,  Frank,  that  I  shall  consider  it  a  deep  per 
sonal  affront  in  future  if  you  repeat  it !" 

"  You  haven't  heard  me  joke  to  you  about  Kate  for  a  long 
time." 

«  No — I  certainly  have  not." 

«  No — for  be  hanged  if  the  matter  is  not  getting  far  too 
serious  for  jesting !" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Archer !  Have  you  never  heard  it  said  that  those  whom 
it  concerns  first  to  be  made  acquainted  with  an  injurious  re 
port  are  usually  the  last  to  hear  it,  and  when  they  are  inno- 
sent,  they  are  the  more  exposed  for  being  innocent,  because 
never  suspect  the  slander,  and  never  guard  against  if2" 

'*  In  Heaven's  name,  what  do  you  mean  *" 


9*2  THE      RUPTURED      TIE. 


Cabell's  jest  was  but  the  echo  of  the  whole  conotj 
talk.  I  have  been  asked,  I  suppose,  twenty  times,  by  twenty 
different  young  men,  to  tell  them  all  about  our  adventure 
upon  the  mountain." 

"  That  was  because  you  first  of  all  represented  it  as  an 
adventure." 

"  I  confess  it  !  In  shame  and  confusion  I  confess  it—  but 
then  many  times  I  am  also  asked  what  is  the  precise  nature 
of  the  relations  subsisting  between  yourself  and  this  girl  ?" 

«  No,  NO  !" 

"Yes,  I  tell  you!" 

"  No  !  no  one  dares  to  question  that  !" 

"  But  they  £/o,  I  tell  you  !  Ay,  and  answer  their  own 
questions  in  a  manner  that  reflects  very  little  honor  upon  the 
parties  !" 

"  Would  God  I  had  never  seen  the  girl  !  Would  God  I 
had  never  brought  her  here  !  I  would  give  my  right  hand 
rather  than  evil  should  befall  her  !  But  WHO  is  it  that  dares 
slander  her  1  Tell  me  !  Give  me  some  name  !  Let  me 
have  SOME  one  to  make  an  example  of!" 

u  Nay,  Clifton  !  you  can't  make  an  example  of  women  and 
children  !"  said  Frank,  evasively. 

"  By  Heaven,  sir,  they  have  husbands  and  fathers,  who 
shall  be  held  accountable  for  the  license  of  tongue  they  allow 
their  wives  and  daughters  !" 

"  Nay,  now,  Archer  !  This  is  a  mere  matter  of  gossip, 
that  will  die  out,  if  you  are  discreet  !" 

"  To  dare  to  talk  of  her  !  They  never  looked  upon  her 
face  '  Else  they  never  could  associate  the  thought  of  evil 
with  that  noble  brow,  those  thoughtful  eyes,  and  serious  lips  ' 
To  slander  her!" 

"  Nay,  nay  —  it  is  not  slander  ;  only  what  I  am  afraid 
should  become  such.  It  is  only  fun  —  joke  —  " 

"  To  dare  to  joke  of  her  /" 

"  <  Her  /'  Verily,  Clifton,  any  one  to  hear  you  breathe 
'her!'  with  your  full  soul's  volume  poured  into  the  little 
word,  would  think  there  was  but  one  <  her'  in  the  world! 
Arcligr,  you  take  a  very  strange  interest  in  that  girl.  Ar« 
7011  sure  that  you  are  not  in  love  with  her  ?" 

<*  In   "ve  with  her  !     Nonsense  —  she  is  a  child  !" 


THE     RUPTURED     TIB.  93 

"  Well  then,  are  you  sure  you  should  not  be  in  love  with 
her,  if  she  were  a  woman  ?" 

"  Ridiculous  !     She  is  a  low-born  girl !" 

«  Oh  I  forgot '  I  beg  pardon  !  lrou  demonstrated  that 
to  me  before." 

"  And,  besides,  sir,  please  to  remember  that  all  my  love 
and  faith  are  due  to  my  cousin,  Miss  Clifton ;  and  that  she 
has  my  whole  heart !  I  love,  admire,  honor,  my  beautiful 
betrothed  bride — nor  for  her  proud  sake  will  I  brook  that 
any  one  should  think  it  possible  that  I  could  even  in  thought 
fail  in  full  loyalty  to  my  liege  lady !  But,  Frank '  my  soul's 
dear  brother !  as  I  tell  you  everything,  I  will  tell  you  this  ! 
that  I  feel  the  very  deepest  interest  in  Catherine's  welfare ! 
If  you  ask  me  why — I  tell  you  I  do  not  know  !  It  surprises 
and  confounds  myself !  But  from  the  first  moment  I  looked 
Upon  her  noble  face,  I  felt  that  interest  stir  within  my  deep 
est  soul.  And  it  has  never  since  ceased  !" 

"  I  swear  you  are  enamored  of  her !" 

"  Preposterous,  Frank !  you  make  me  angry !  It  is  a 
very  different  thing  from  being  enamored  of  her,  let  me  tell 
you !  There  is  my  beautiful,  but  cold  and  scornful  bride,  up 
at  Clifton  !  Well,  I  am  the  most  patient  of  all  adoring 
slaves !  I  wait  upon  her  sovereign  eyes  all  day  long !  I 
am  proud  to  submit  to  her  whims — to  do  her  lightest  bid 
ding,  and  pick  up  her  lap-dog — or  to  obey  her  severest 
command,  and  exile  myself  from  her  gracious  presence  all 
day  long !  But  now  observe  the  difference !  I  feel  a  deep, 
strong,  strange  interest  in  Kate.  I  oannot  account  for  it. 
I  feel  a  sort  of  unratified  right  of  proj)erty.in-h«r.  I  wish 
to  do  her  good.  But  I  wish-thafall  the  good  she  may  ever 
possess  in  the  world,  may  come  from  only  me !  and  that  for  all 
good  things  with  which  I  cannot  supply  her,  she  may  suffer 
the  want  rather  than  owe  their  possession  to  another!  Very 
like  love,  is  it  not  ?  But  I  wish  to  control  her_destiny !  I 
wish  to  have  her  in _ my^oweT^^"fl7Z~Aonor,  however!  It 
galls  me  to  think  that  I  have  no  right  of  authority  or  guar 
dianship  over  her !  I  ardently  desire  such  a  right !  I  long 
to  have  the  disposal  of  her  person  and  fate  !  I  crave  with  a 
frantic  craving,  to  have  more  than  a  father's — more  than  a 
husband's — more  lhan  a  master's  right  over  her !  I  would  to 
Goi  she  were  born  mine — my  own — body,  soul  and  spirit' 
6 


94  THE      RUPTURED      TIE. 

My  own  to  use  or  abuse — to  crown  or  kill,  as  I  listed !" 
exclaimed  Clifton,  passionately,  while  his  cheeks  and  very  lips 
were  white  and  dry,  and  his  eyes  burned  with  a  fierce,  con 
suming,  inward  fire.  And  forgetting  all  things  real,  he  felt 
as  in  a  vision,  a  girl's  spirit  swoop  down  upon  his  bosom,  and 
a  dream  voice  murmur  in  his  ear — "  Oh  !  if  it  will  give  you 
one  instant's  joy  to  press  me  strongly  to  your  heart — crush  me 
to  death  in  the  fold,  and  my  goul  will  exhale  in  rapture  to 
Heaven."  The  fervid  vision  came  and  passed  like  lightning, 
and  Clifton  roused  himself  from  reverie,  with  a  smile  and  a 
sneer,  saying — "  Very  like  love,  all  that !  is  it  not  ?" 

But  as  Frank  did  not  reply,  and  as  they  had  now  arrived 
at  the  gate  leading  into  the  yard,  the  conversation  ceased. 

The  early  tea-table  was  set  out  under  the  shade  of  the 
great  oaks,  and  the  ladies  were  walking  about,  taking  the 
evening  air  in'  the  yard.  As  supper  was  only  waiting  the 
arrival  of  Captain  Clifton  and  Mr.  Fairfax,  it  was  now  speedily 
served. 

After  tea  was  over,  the  carriages  were  all  brought  round 
and  the  company  took  leave  of  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  departed. 

Captain  Clifton  and  Mr.  Fairfax  were  the  last  to  leave. 
They  mounted  their  horses  and  took  the  bridle-path  down 
the  mountain-side.  This  separated  them  from  the  rest  of 
their  party,  who  went  by  the  road.  They  did  not,  however, 
converse.  Frank  was  thoughtful,  and  Clifton  himself  buriei 
in  a  deep  reverie. 

It  was  quite  early  when  they  arrived  at  White  Cliffs ;  and 
the  remainder  of  the  party  had  not  yet  arrived.  Mr.  Fairfax 
joined  Mrs.  Clifton  in  the  garden,  and  Archer  Clifton  sought 
his  lady-love,  where  he  was  informed  he  would  find  her, 
namely,  in  the  Summer  saloon.  He  threw  down  his  liat  and 
entered  hurriedly,  intending  to  surprise  from  her  a  hasty  kiss. 
Carolyn  was  standing  looking  out  of  the  window  upon  the 
rich  sunset  scene — the  last  sun  that  would  set  upon  her 
maiden  life,  perhaps,  she  thought.  On  seeing  Clifton  she 
moved  away,  and  retreated  to  the  work-table  at  which  she 
seated  herself.  Clifton  approached,  and  with  an  air  of  gal 
lantry,  half  serious,  half  playful,  kneeled  upon  one  knee 
and  kissed  her  hand.  She  drew  it  coldly  away — but  that 
was  the  custom  of  the  "  proud  ladie,"  and  did  not  surprise 
her  IOT  <?r  He  arose  and  drew  a  chair  to  her  side  an  d  seated 


THE     RUPTURED     TIB.  96 

himself,  and  began  to  affi. ct  an  interest  in  her  littlo  lady-like 
occupations.  Her  right  hand  rested  upon  a  pile  of  beautifully 
fine  linen  cambric  handkerchiefs — an  item  in  the  imported 
trousseau.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  hers,  and  asked  her  some 
trivial  question  about  them. 

Now,  Carolyn,  after  a  day's  extreme  suffering,  had  almost 
gained  a  victory  over  her  passion.  Her  haughtiness  had  almost 
saved  her.  Not  to  one  soul  in  that  house — not  to  Georgia, 
had  she  betrayed  the  least  sign  of  the  cruel  suspicion  that 
had  nearly  maddened  her  brain.  Not  for  all  Clifton — not 
for  all  the  world  would  she  have  betrayed  her  passion  to  her 
lover — or  condescended  to  admit  that  she  could  be  jealoug 
of  him ;  for  she  felt  that  once  to  accuse  him  would  be  to 
impose  upon  her  the  necessity  of  breaking  with  him.  How 
could  she,  in  honor,  marry  a  man  to-morrow  whom  to-day 
she  had  accused  of  treachery  ? — besides,  she  was  not  sure — 
could  never  be  sure  of  his  moral  dereliction.  And  while 
there  was  a  doubt  in  his  favor,  she  must  conquer  or 
conceal  all  suspicion,  or,  letting  escape,  must  break  with 
him,  even  at  this  last  moment — must  break  with  him  for 
ever  !  At  least  so  her  high  spirit  and  her  pride  argued. 
She  could  not  part  with  him — pride  forbade  that  also. — 
What !  the  marriage  of  Miss  Clifton  of  Clifton  broken  off  at 
the  last  moment,  and  all  about  a  mountain-girl  ?  Pah ! 
Forbid  it,  all  the  shades  of  all  the  buried  Cliftons !  Hearts 
might  break,  but  haughty  heads  must  not  be  bowed  !  Bet 
ter  lost  peace  than  lost  place  !  And  then  she  loved  him ! — 
loved  him  the  deeper  for  suppressing  all  signs  of  love  ! — and 
she  could  not  bear  to  lose  him !  And  banish  him  she  must, 
if  she  should  once  betray  the  jealous  passion  of  her  heart. 
This  mighty  motive  kept  down  the  rising  storm.  Yet  all 
depended  upon  her  vigilant  self-control.  Should  a  look,  a 
word  of  suspicion,  escape  her  then,  she  felt  the  curbed  frenzy 
of  her  soul  would  have  broken  all  bounds ;  even  as  by  the 
smallest  fracture  in  the  dyke,  the  mighty  and  irresistible  sea 
is  let  in  upon  the  land,  carrying  destruction  and  death  before 
it!  All  depended  on  her  silence.  So,  to  keep  her  lover 
from  noticing  her  mood, — or  fatally  inquiring  its  cause — and 
to  give  him  employment,  she  pushed  the  pile  of  handkerchiefs 
towards  him,  saying  calmly — 

"  Mark  them  for  mo  ' 


96  THE      RUPTURED      TIE. 

Clifton  smilingly  took  them,  found  the  little  vial  of  indeli- 
Dle  ink,  and  went  to  work — himself  well  pleased  to  have 
pome  service  to  perform  for  his  liege  lady,  that  would,  with 
out  disrespect  to  Aer,  deliver  him  from  the  duty  of  keeping 
up  a  running  conversation,  for  which  he  felt  indisposed. 

She  need  not  have  feared  that  Archer  Clifton  would  ob 
serve  her  mood.  He  himself  was  too  abstracted,  too  thought 
ful,  to  be  critical  or  inquisitive.  He  was  deeply  troubled  by 
the  recollection  of  the  conversations  of  the  afternoon,  affect 
ing  Kate  Kavanagh.  Insfead  of  benefiting,  had  he  retvlly 
wronged  that  excellent  girl  1 — darkened  the  very  morning 
of  her  just  opening  life  with  the  clouds  of  suspicion  ?  And 
was  even  his  mother's  protection  insufficient  to  shield  her  in 
nocence  from  such  attacks  of  slander  1  Yes  ! — for  the  fad 
»f  his  mother's  protection  was  not  even  acknowledged. 
Blander  shuts  its  eyes  to  truth,  while  it  opens  its  lips  to  false 
hood.  Should  he  send  her  back  to  the  mountain,  and  expose 
her  to  all  the  evils  of  that  life  ?  No,  no  ! — his  whole  heart 
protested  against  that  course.  Yet  what  to  do  to  save  her  ? 
He  could  not  decide  then.  He  could  not  even  get  his  own 
consent  to  consult  his  mother.  What !  wound  her  ear  with 
the  repetition  of  such  a  story  1  Never  !  His  usual  prompt! 
tude  of  decision  and  action  forsook  him  quite.  A  cry  was 
in  his  heart,  and  he  could  only  repeat  to  himself  her  name 
in  deep  sorrow, — "Oh,  Kate!  Kate!  Kate  Kavanagh!" 
until  her  very  name  "  Kate  Kavanagh"  became  the  refrain 
of  a  plaintive  silent  melody !  Meantime  he  pursued  his  oc 
cupation  quite  mechanically,  marking  and  laying  down,  one  by 
one,  the  handkerchiefs,  until  the  whole  dozen  was  complete. 

Carolyn  Clifton  watched  his  complete  and  mournful  abstrac 
tion  with  increasing  suspicion. 

When  all  the  handkerchiefs  were  marked,  he  took  the 
parcel,  and  shaking  off  sad  thought,  smilingly  laid  them  be 
fore  his  lady's  eyes,  gayly  entreating  her  to  examine  his  work, 
and  reward  him  with  a  kindly  word  if  it  should  please  her. 

Miss  Clifton  took  up  the  parcel,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
topmost  handkerchief,  and  she  started  violently.  She  swiftly 
turned  it  over  and  looked  at  the  second,  and  tho  blood  rushed 
to  her  brow !  At  the  third,  and  it  receded  again,  leaving 
her  pale  as  death !  She  hurriedly  went  through  the  dozen, 
then  springing  tt  her  feet,  she  hurled  the  parcel  to  the  floor, 


THE     RUPTURED     TIE.  97 

and  setting  her  heel  upon  it,  lifted  her  proud  form  to  its 
loftiest  height,  and  stood,  her  chest  expanded,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  cheek  kindling,  her  eyes  blazing, — full ! 
full ! — yet  proudly  suppressing  all  utterance  of  passion % 
Captain  Clifton  st  rted  to  his  feet,  exclaiming — 

"  Carolyn,  my  dear  cousin  !" 

But  spurning  the  parcel  beneath  her  heel,  she  turned  im 
periously  away,  and  walked  up  the  room. 

He  followed  her,  repeating — 

"  Carolyn,  my  dearest  Carolyn  !  what  is  it  ?" 

Turning  and  flashing  upon  him  her  fierce,  imperious  eyes, 
she  stretched  out  her  arm,  and  pointed  in  scornful  silence  to 
the  handkerchiefs  on  the  floor. 

He  went  and  picked  them  up  to  examine  them.  Oh! 
treacherous  absence  of  mind !  Oh !  fatal  refrain  of  the 
mental  melody  !  Oh  !  horror  of  horrors  !  Catastrophe  of 
catastrophes !  Upon  every  handkerchief  was  beautifully 
marked — "  KATE  KAVANAGII." 

"  Confirmation  strong 
As  proof  from  Holy  Writ." 

Ay,  and  a  great  deal  stronger,  as  sight  is  more  convincing 
than  faith  '  What  was  to  be  done  ?  It  was  in  vain  to  deny 
or  attempt  to  explain  it !  Yet  he  must  try,  even  if  he  should 
make  himself  ridiculous.  Hurling  the  fatal  "  handkerchiefs" 
down  with  virulence,  he  sprang  to  the  side  of  the  outraged 
and  indignant  beauty ;  seized  her  hand,  exclaiming,  vehe 
mently — 

"  My  dearest  love — pardon  !  pardon !  This  is  all  a  mis 
take  !" 

Spurning  his  clasp  from  her  hand,  she  turned  away  m 
arrogant  silence. 

Dropping  upon  one  knee,  he  took  her  hand  again,  and 
looking  up  in  her  face,  said,  in  a  voice  of  entreaty — 

"  My  Carolyn !  this  is  all  a  mistake ! — the  most  absurd 
mistake  !  The  effect  of  the  merest  absence  of  mind !  The 
most  ridiculous  thing !" 

"  Oh,  sir!"  she  answered,  with  slow  and  withering  scorn, 
drawing  her  hand  away  again,  "  I  do  not  doubt  it  was  a  mis 
take.  I  never  supposed  yen  would  dare  an  intentional  insult 
to  my  father's  daughter !" 


98  THE      RUPTURED      TIE. 

"  But,  Carolyn,  my  dearest  cousin,  only  permit  me  to  ex 
plain—" 

"  Oh,  sir,  I  entreat  you  spare  me  the  humiliation  of  hear 
ing  the  story !"  she  sneered,  with  curling  lip. 

"  But,  Carolyn,  my  dear,  loved  bride !  My  bride,  that 
will  be,  to-morrow — if  you  will  allow  me  to  tell  you  all  the 
simple  truth — the  reason  why  this  young  girl's  name  ran  in 
my  head  so." 

"  Oh,  sir ."  she  exclaimed,  raising  both  hands,  and  turning 
away  her  head  in  loathing — "  I  implore  you  ! — I  most  humbly 
beseech  you  to  forbear !  Spare  me  details  that  might  shock 
my — delicacy !" 

"  Carolyn,"  he  said,  gravely  and  reproachfully  rising,  and 
taking  her  hand — "  this  does  not  become  you." 

Throwing  off  his  hand,  with  scorn  and  indignation,  she 
replied — 

"  It  would  less  become  me,  sir,  to  listen  to  the  history  you 

would  tell .;)     Then  subsiding  into  a  mood  of  contemptuous 

irony,  she  said,  with  a  sneering  smile — "  Believe  me,  sir,  I 

feel  more  disgusted  at  your  bad  taste  than  shocked  at  your 

Bin,  or   wronged  by   your   bad   faith.     Jl    mountain-girl! 

Truly,  I  am  humiliated  to  think  so  base  a  rival  should  have 

moved  me — even  to  contempt.     I  am  dishonored,  sir,  in  that. 

|  Had  your  wandering  fancy  fixed  upon  one  of  my  cousins — 

j  one  of  the  elegant  Misses  Cabell,  I  might  have  mourned  youi 

I  infidelity,  but  should  have  been  saved  this  deep  humiliation 

I  for  myself,  and  this  utter  contempt  for  you — but  a  mountain- 

girl !     A  coarse,  ignorant,  ill-bred  mountain-girl !     Oh-h-h  ! 

tliat  you  should  have  stooped,  or  I  should  have  been  moved, 

'  by  so  low  a  creature  as  that !     I  could  burv  my  head  with 

shame!" 

"  Carolyn !"  he  said,  sternly,  "  permit  me  to  inform  you — " 

"  No,  SIR  !"  she  exclaimed,  scorn  writhing  her  lips,  indig 
nation  flashing  from  her  eyes — "  ISTo,  SIR  !  You  shall  tell 
jie  NOTHING  !  It  would  ill-become  my  mother's  daughj^r  to 
.isten  to  the  revolting  history  of — your  base -amour  with  the 
anuntain-girl !" 

Yes,  in  the  bitterness  of  her  passion,  she  forgot  her  maiden 
delicacy,  and  spoke  those  shameful  words  to  his  astonished 
Ears  ! 

Miss  Cliftm!"    he  replied,  severely,  folding  his  arms 


THE     RUPTURED     TIE.  9l« 

and  gazing  sternly  and  steadily  into  her  blushing  face — for 
she  was  already  b/ushing  for  her  temerity  — until  she  quailed 
before  him — "  Miss  Clifton,  you  mistake  my  purpose — I  have 
no  intention,  now,  to  explain  anything — the  man  who  would 
condescend  to  deny  so  base  a  crime  as  you  have  charged  upon 
me — is  not  too  high  or  pure  to  commit  it.  Therefore,  I  deign 
to  say  nothing  for  myself.  But  for  the  admirable  girl  that 
you  have  slandered — I  will  say  this :  Had  a  man  dared  to 
asperse  the  fair  fame  of  Catherine  Kavanagh — though  that 
man  had  been  my  bosom  friend — he  should  have  expiated  his 
falsehood  with  his  life  : — Had  any  other  woman  breathed  a 
breath  of  slander  on  her — her  husband  or  her  father  should 
have  atoned  for  the  fault : — For  yourself,  Miss  Clifton — you 
shall  retract  your  words,  before  ever  I  shall  call  you  wife  !" 

This  roused  her  passion  to  ungovernable  fury.  Turning 
ghastly  white,  while  the  light  seemed  to  leap  from  her  eyes, 
she  exclaimed,  in  a  low,  deep,  intense  tone — 

<»  DEATH,  sir !  Do  you  threaten  me  ?  Insult  me  in  my 
father's  house  ?  Leave  it !  You  are  unworthy  to  stand 
upon  this  floor  !  BEGONE  !"  And  reaching  out  her  hand, 
she  seized  the  bell  cord,  and  rang  a  peal  that  presently 
brought  a  servant  to  the  door.  The  advent  of  a  third  party, 
though  that  party  was  a  menial,  constrained  the  lady  to  re 
member  herself.  Miss  Clifton  was  her  cold,  serene,  dignified 
self  again.  Turning  to  the  servant,  she  said,  haughtily, 
"  Show  Captain  Clifton  to  the  front  door,  and  bring  round 
his  horse,  instantly.  He  returns  to  Hardbargain,  to-night." 
And  she  bowed  to  Clifton,  and  calmly  and  imperiously  walked 
from  the  room. 

The  man  stood  waiting  and  bowing.  Captain  Clifton 
snatched  his  hat,  saying — 

"  Let  my  horse  be  brought  round,  without  delay.  Dandy, 
and  tell  your  master,  when  he  returns,  that  he  shall  hear 
from  me  at  Hardbargain." 

When  the  man  had  bowed  and  retired,  Captain  Clifton 
passed  out  through  the  open  leaf  of  the  window,  into  the 
piazza,  and  thence  down  into  the  lawn,  to  speak  to  Frank, 
who  was  just  entering  from  the  garden  with  Mrs.  Clifton  on 
his  arm. 

Georgia  saw  at  a  glance,  that  her  train  of  gunpowder  had 
caught,  an  1  the  magazine  had  blown  up,  and  her  dark,  beau- 


LOO  THE      RUPTURED      TIE. 

tifiil,  demoniac,  witching  face  lighted  up  with  a  mrid  joy  fo» 
one  unguarded  instant,  and   then  all  was  self- recollection 
self-control,  and  sweet,  smooth,  serene,  alluring  glamour. 
Bowing  deeply  to  Mrs.  Clifton,  he  said — 
"  Madam,  an  unexpected  event  sends  me  from  Clifton  thii 
evening.     Pray  make  my  adieus  to  my  uncle  and  cousin, 
And  permit  me  to  commend  my  friend  here  to  your  hospi 
table  care  until  such  time  as  he  pleases  to  become  my  guest 
at  Hardbargain — if,  indeed,  he  will  not  ride  thither  with  me 
to  night,"  he  added,  turning  to  Frank. 

Fairfax  was  too  surprised  to  speak. 

Mrs.  Clifton,  who  was  not  surprised  at  all,  yet  affected 
much  interest,  said,  archly — 

"Oh,  but  we  shall  see  you  back  very  early  to-morrow 
morning!" 

"  I  regret  to  add,  madam,  that  it  is  not  likely,"  he  said, 
with  another  bow ;  then  turning  to  Frank,  he  asked — 

"  Will  you  ride  with  me  to-night,  Fairfax  ?" 

Frank  glanced  at  the  lady  on  his  arm,  and  then  looking 
rebukingly  at  Clifton,  begged  to  be  excused. 

"Well,  then,  you  are  my  guest,  Fairfax,  and  my  mother 
has  often  pressed  you  to  give  her  a  few  weeks  of  your  com 
pany.  Join  me  at  Hardbargain  as  soon  as  possible— the 
sooner  the  better.  To-morrow  even — " 

"  To-morrow!"  archly  smiled  the  wily  lady.  To-morrow, 
I  fancy,  his  attendance  and  your  own  will  be  required  here. 
Do  you  forget  ? — Well,  that  is  the  worst  instance  of  absence 
of  mind  I  ever  saw  or  heard  of!  A  young  bridegroom  to 
forget,  for  an  instant,  his  wedding-day  !  Too  bad,  even  for 
yow,  the  notoriously-absent-minded  Archer  Clifton  !" 

Not  wishing  to  enter  into  explanations,  Captain  Clifton 
merely  replied  with  another  bow — a  most  convenient,  safe 
and  polite  manner  of  answer,  since,  without  lack  of  courtesy, 
it  committed  nothing. 

Then,  taking  leave  of  both  lady  and  gentleman,  and  re 
peating  his  invitation  to  Frank,  he  turned  and  went  to  take 
his  horse  from  the  servant  that  held  it,  threw  himself  up  into 
the  saddle,  and,  with  a  parting  wave  of  his  hat,  rode  away  af 
fill  speed. 

"  Clifton  looks  darkly  -what  can  be  the  matter  ?"  aslftd 
Frank. 


THE     RUITUKED     TIE. 

"  Oh,  nothing !  probably  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain, 
has  been  troubled  with  some  refractory  servant,  and  has  sent 
for  her  son  to  come  up  and  reduce  him  to  order — or  possibly 
there  may  be  some  dispute  or  difficulty  in  settling  the  de« 
mands  of  the  hired  harvest  hands.  They  are  often  even 
dishonest  in  their  extortions." 

"Deferring  to  your  better  judgment,  madam,  still,  I  fear 
not !  I  think  such  trifles  would  scarcely  have  raised  so  dark 
a  thunder-cloud  upon  Clifton's  brow,"  said  Frank. 

"  Oh,  well !  At  worst  it  is  but  some  lover's  quarrel  with 
his  most  exacting  queen,  Carolyn !"  playfully  replied  the 
lady. 

Frank  was  not  satisfied — he  was  pained.  This  most  dan 
gerous  dark  beauty  fascinated  and  frightened  him  by  turns. 
He  had  never  seen  the  fiend  in  her  face  since  that  first  night, 
and  her  witching  power  had  almost  erased  the  remembrance 
of  it  from  his  mind.  Indeed,  if  he  had  ever  recollected  it,  it  ( 
was  with  wonder  and  remorse  that  he  should  have  ever  read/ 
such  fearful  meaning  in  a  lady's  frown,  and  he  ascribed  it  to 
the  phantasmagoria  of  his  own  fatigued  nerves  and  ovei/- 
excited  brain.  But  now  he  felt  vaguely  anxious,  suspicions, 
foreboding — he  scarce  kuew  wherefore.  He  had  no  rea  on 
to  reply  to  the  lady  again,  for  at  the  instant  she  finished 
speaking,  the  carriages  drove  into  the  yard,  bringing  the 
company  from  Hardbargain,  and  they  walked  forward  to 
welcome  them  home. 


THE       SEVERED      HEARTS. 


CHAPTEll  VH. 

THK   SEVERED    HEARTS. 

Alas!  how  slight  a  cause  may  move 

Dissension  between  hearts  that  love — 

Hearts  that  the  world  in  vain  had  tried, 

And  sorrow  but  more  closely  tied  ; 

That  stood  the  storm  when  waves  were  rough, 

Yet  in  a  sunny  hour  fell  off, 

Like  ships  that  have  gone  down  at  sea, 

When  Heaven  was  all  tranquillity ! 

A  something  light  as  air — a  look — 

A  word  unkind  or  wrongly  taken  ; 
Oh,  love  that  tempests  never  shook, 

A  breath — a  touch  like  this  hath  shaken. — MOOR.&. 

SOME  hours  after  the  arrival  of  the  company,  old  Mr. 
Clifton  sat  alone  in  his  study,  examining  piles  of  accounts, 
merchants',  mechanics',  and  hired  laborers'  bills,  that  had 
come  in  as  usual  upon  the  first  of  Juty,  many  weeks  before, 
yet  had  not,  up  to  this  night,  been  settled.  For  many  years 
past  the  financial  affairs  of  the  Master  of  Clifton  had  been 
\  falling  behindhand.  The  cause  of  this  was  that  no  planta- 
1  tion  and  plantation  house  can  thoroughly  succeed  without 
|  the  personal  superintendence  of  an  efficient  mistress  to  assist 
(_the  master's  effort.  Often,  indeed,  it  happens,  that  while 
the  master  himself  is  engaged  in  state  politics,  or  off  at  the 
legislature,  or  at  congress,  or  on  the  circuit  as  a  judge  of  the 
court,  or  in  the  metropolis  of  the  state,  or  of  the  nation, 
holding  some  high  office  under  the  government — the  mistress, 
at  houie  upon  the  plantation,  is  the  main-spring  of  all  its 
business — superintending — not  only  the  house  and  house 
maids,  with  their  multifarious  cares  and  avocations,  such  as 
a  city  housewife  cannot  conceive  of,  but  managing  the  planta 
tion  also — keeping  the.  overseer  to  his  duty,  adjudging 
equitably  all  difficulties  that  may  arise  between  him  and  the 
slaves  under  his  charge — looking  over  all  the  numerous 
accounts,  paying  debts,  and,  when  necessary,  retrenching 


THE     SEVERED     HEARTS.  103 

expenses.  Now  the  Clifton  plantation  had  been  singularly 
unfortunate  in  a  series  of  inefficient  mistresses,  even  before 
it  fell  in  regular  succession  to  the  present  Mr.  Clifton.  And 
after  that,  affairs  were  worse  than  ever.  His  first  wife,  the 
haughty  Miss  Gower,  the  mother  of  Carolyn,  was  far  too 
great  a  lady  to  look  after  a  housekeeper  and  overseer,  and 
her  successors  had  been  all  young  girls,  very  worthless,  ex 
cept  as  pets  and  playthings,  and  who  had,  besides,  to  be 
indulged  every  year  with  their  winters  in  Richmond,  or  in 
Washington — a  two-fold  evil,  as  it  took  the  master  from  his 
plantation  and  men,  and  the  mistress  from  her  house  and 
maids,  and  laid  them,  besides,  under  the  heavy  expense  of 
city  hotel  living,  dressing,  dinner-giving,  theatres,  balls, 
concerts,  etc.  Once  in  awhile,  as  a  bridal  treat,  or  at  the 
successive  "  coming  out"  of  daughters,  a  winter  in  the  me 
tropolis  may  be  well  enough.  But  when  continued  year1 
after  year,  through  a  lifetime,  to  the  total  neglect  of  the 
plantation,  the  revenues  of  no  ordinary  estate  will  hold  out. 
So  it  followed,  that  as  the  master  and  mistress  ceased  to 
look  after  the  overseer  and  the  housekeeper,  the  overseer 
and  housekeeper  ceased  to  look  after  the  men  and  maids, 
and  the  men  and  maids  grew  careless  and  indolent  in  the 
performance  of  their  duties.  Thus,  as  the  expenses  rose, 
the  income  fell.  And  thus,  at  the  present  time,  old  Mr. 
Clifton  was  almost  irredeemably  in  debt,  and  all  the  Clifton 
property,  except  the  land,  mortgaged  to  its  full  value.  The 
mortgage  might  foreclose  at  any  instant.  And  at  this  pre 
sent  moment,  the  poor  old  master  of  great  Clifton  had  not 
the  ready  money  to  pay  his  harvest  hands.  The  extent  of 
his  liabilities  was,  however,  so  little  known  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  that  his  credit  was  still  good,  and  almost  high — and 
the  estate  of  White  Cliffs  was  still  considered  as  one  of  the 
most  prosperous  in  the  county,  and  the  owners  still  held  as 
^ery  enviable  people.  While  old  Mr.  Clifton  sat  pondering 
most  dismally  over  his  impracticable  accounts,  the  study 
door  was  suddenly  thrown  open,  and  Miss  Clifton  entered, 
in  great  excitement,  and  threw  herself  into  a  chair  before 
her  father,  exclaiming — 

"  father,  I  have  been  insulted  i" 

The  old  man,  never  indifferent  to  his  children's  cry — ever 
readj  in  the  midst  of  his  own  real  cares,  to  hear  and  synipa- 


104  THE      SEVERED      HEARTS. 

thize  even  with  their  fantastic  griefs — looked  up  from  hi* 
papers  in  perplexity,  inquiring — 

"  What  is  it  1     What  did  you  say,  my  child  ?" 

"  I  have  been  insulted  ! — outraged  sir  !" 

The  old  man  gazed  at  her  in  surprise,  repeating — 

"  c  Insulted,  outraged  !' ' 

"Yes,  sir!  contemned,  despised,  scorned,  insulted,  out 
raged,  rejected!" 

The  old  man  placed  his  hands  upon  the  arms  of  the  chair 
and  gazed  in  astonishment,  exclaiming — 

"  { Insulted  ! — outraged  !'  Whom  ]  You,  my  daughter 
Miss  Clifton !  Impossible." 

"Yes,  sir!  me,  your  daughter — Carolyn  Clifton!" 

"  Who  has  presumed — who  has  dared — ?" 

"Captain  Cltfton,  sir,  'has  dared!'"  replied  the  indig 
nant  beauty,  rising  in  her  excitement. 

The  old  gentleman  stared  at  her  in  blank  wonder  for  t 
minute,  and  then — taking  her  hand — 

"  Sit  down — sit  down — sit  down — sit  down/'  he  kept  re 
peating,  "  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Carolyn  drank  a  glass  of  ice  water  that  stood  near  her  on 
the  table,  and  then,  in  a  cooler  manner,  told  her  father  ex 
actly  what  had  passed.,  and  how  it  had  finally  ended. 

The  old  gentleman  scratched  his  snow-white  head  in  vex 
ation  and  perplexity,  but  the  winter  bloom  of  his  broad,  rosy 
face,  was  neither  heightened  nor  lowered  at  the  hearing  of 
the  tale.  He  did  not  by  any  means  display  the  indignation 
the  offended  beauty  had  expected. 

"  Well,  sir !"  at  last  she  said,  rather  haughtily,  "  what  do 
you  say  to  this  ?" 

He  put  his  .arm  fondly  around  her  waist,  and  drew  her  to 
him,  saying,  caressingly — 

"  You're  a  fool,  Carolyn  !  A  vain,  jealous  little  fool, 
that's  all !  Nay,  now  ! — no  airs  with  your  old  father !  Ac 
cording  to  your  own  showing,  it  has  been  Archer  that  has 
been  '  contemned,  despised,  scorned,  insulted,  outraged,  re 
jected  !'  and  the  rest  of  it — and  upon  no  just  grounds,  either! 
as  I  can  easily  prove  to  you.  1  am  very  much  mortified — 
deeply  humbled,  indeed,  to  hear  that  my  daughter,  a  high 
born  young  maftlen,  should  have  forgotten  her  feminine  pride 
and  delicacy,  and  ~eproached  hei  lover  with  an  intimacy  with 


THE     SEVERED     HEARTS.  105 

ft  mountain -girl — a  race  of  women,  with  very  few  exceptions 
so  low  and  wretched,  that  a  young  lady  should  ignore  then 
very  existence.  Oh,  my  conscience,  Carolyn  !  why  do  you 
not  cover  your  face,  and  die  with  humiliation  ?  I  do  not 
wonder  a  man  of  such  high  honor  and  delicate  sensibility  a,( 
Archer  Clifton,  should  have  been  shocked  and  disgusted. 
Nay,  my  child  ! — no  airs  with  me  !  No  tossing  of  the  head, 
Itnd  curling  of  the  lip  with  me !  I  am  your  father.  You 
must  listen  to  me.  You  have  done  Archer  the  most  out 
rageous  injustice.  And  your  jealousy  is  as  ridiculous  as  it  it> 
gidehcate.  In  the  first  place,  this  girl,  though  brought  up 
on  the  mountain,  comes  of  respectable,  if  humble  parentage, 
and  possesses,  by  all  accounts,  a  higher  toned  moral  and  in 
tellectual  nature  than  most  young  ladies  are  endowed  with. 
She  is  as  far  removed  from  vice  as  my  own  Carolyn !  In  tho 
second  place,  she  is  the  protege  of  Mrs.  Clifton,  as  well  as 
of  Captain  Clifton,  and  enjoys  that  excellent  lady's  esteem 
and  friendship,  spending  half  of  every  day  in  her  company, 
except  when  visitors  are  at  the  house.  In  the  third  and  last 
place,  she  is  not  a  beautiful  woman,  but  an  ugly  child — being 
scarcely  fourteen  years  of  age,  and  having  the  ugliest  face  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life — at  least  /  think  so,  though  Mrs.  Clifton 
says  it  is  a  noble  face.  It  has  large  features,  and  is  full  of 
strength  and  expression,  like  a  boy's.  There,  now,  that's 
ill!  Now!  what  do  you  think  of  yourself?" 

During  this  short  explanation,  Carolyn's  beautiful  counte 
nance  had  changed  expression  as  rapidly  and  as  variously  as 
during  the  lay  of  the  minstrel  the  harp  changes  and  varies 
its  notes.  At  its  close  she  dropped  down  by  the  side  of  the 
old  man,  and  throwing  her  arms  and  her  head  upon  his  knees; 
in  utter  weakness  and  dejection,  sobbed — 

"  Father !  how  shall  I  ever  be  forgiven  ?" 

He  raised  her  to  his  knee,  and  putting  his  arm  aiound  her 
tfaist,  drew  her  head  upon  his  bosom,  and  said- 

"  It  is  an  ugly  lover's  quarrel,  certainly,  my  love  !  And 
\rcher  Clifton  is  as  proud  as  you  are !  But  it  must  be  made 
up  !  It  must  be  made  up  !  A  very  ugly  quarrel,  indeed . 
And  on  the  eve  of  your  marriage,  too  !  But  it  must  be  made 
up!  It  must  be  made  up  !  Ah,  doubtless  he  will  be  ovrei 
to-irorrow  right !  He  feels  as  bad  as  you  do,  I'll  warrant 


106  THE      SEVERED      HEARTS 

he  does !     I'll  warrant  lie  does !     i  sno'jld,  I  know,  if  I 
were  he  !" 

"  Ah,  father !  no  he  does  not !  He  was  in  the  right !  1 
was  in  the  wrong!" 

"  Yes !  you  were  wrong,  Carry  !  And  I  Lope  it  will  be  a 
lesson  to  you  !  But  that  makes  no  difference  in  his  feelings^ 
Dot  a  whit !  He  suffers  as  much  as  you  do  !  Why,  when  I 
have  a  difficulty  with  my  poor  little  pet,  Georgia,  if  she  is 
ever  so  wrong,  and  I  ever  so  right,  I  am  nevertheless  the 
most  miserable  man  alive!" 

"  Ah,  father,  but  there  is  a  great,  difference — I  am  not 
Archer's  pet,  but  was  to  be  his  consort.  We — Archer  and 
myself,  are  nearly  equal  in  station,  ay,  education,  disposi 
tion,  and  so  are  more  responsible  for  our  conduct  towards 
each  other !"  sighed  Carolyn,  dropping  her  head  dejectedly 
upon  his  bosom. 

"  Oh,  well !  now  if  you  are  so  full  of  doubts  and  fears ! 
it  is  but  ten  o'clock !  I  will  mount  my  horse,  and  ride  up  to 
Hardbargain,  and  knock  the  young  gentleman  up — I  doubt 
if  he  is  asleep  ! — and  bring  him  back  here,  to-night !" 

"  Not  for  the  world !  Not  for  ten  thousand  worlds  !"  ey 
claimed  the  proud  girl,  vehemently. 

"  Ah,  then  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  you — go  to  bed, 
and  try  to  sleep,  and  if  you  can't  do  that,  ring  for  the  house 
keeper,  and  make  her  give  you  some  of  her  nostrums,  to  put 
you  to  sleep !  And  go  into  a  state  of  non-existence,  that 
shall  obliterate  the  time  between  this  and  to-morrow  morn 
ing.  And  to-morrow,  I'll  warrant  Archer  will  be  here  to 
breakfast  with  us,  and  to  beg  your  pardon  for  the  sins  that 
you  committed !  for  that's  the  end  of  all  lovers'  quarrels ! 
No  matter  who's  right  and  who's  wrong — who's  sinned 
again-st,  and  who's  sinning,  the  gentleman  has  to  do  the  pen 
ance  !  There  !  kiss  me,  and  be  off  with  you  ! — and  hark  ye, 
Carolyn !  don't  forget  to  kneel  down  and  pray  Heaven  to 
giro  you  the  grace  of  a  meeker  temper !" 

Carolyn  Clifton  went  to  her  room  and  retired  to  bed>  to 
heat  1  er  pillow  with  her  feverish  head,  to  wet  it  with  her 
hot  tears — to  sigh,  and  groan,  and  tosrf,  and  sob  all  night. 
This  bitter,  bitter  quarrel,  was  the  first  trouble  the  girl  had 
ever  had  ic  all  her  favored  life.  And  she  was  impatieul 


THE     SEVERED     HEARTS.  107 

it,  indignant  at  it.  She  was  angry  with  herself  for  her 
injustice  and  indelicacy ;  angry  with  Clifton  for  not  forcing 
upon  her  the  explanation  she  would  not  consent  to  receive, 
hut  which,  had  she  been  forced  to  hear,  would  have  arrested 
the  quarrel,  and  saved  this  cruel  suffering;  angry  at  the  te 
dious  night,  that  lingered  so  long,  keeping  her  in  agonizing 
suspense ;  angry  at  the  morning,  that  delayed  its  coming, 
and  bringing  her  the  peace  and  joy  of  a  reconciliation.  And 
sc  she  tossed,  and  groaned,  and  suffered,  like  one  in  high 
fever,  while  the  long,  long  night  was  slowly,  slowly  passing 
away. 


In  the  meantime  Captain  Clifton  had  ridden  away,  not  sn 
angry  as  shocked,  repulsed  and  alienated  by  the  unprece 
dented  behaviour  of  his  lady-love.  He  disliked  all  demon 
strations  of  emotion,  and  detested  all  exhibitions  of  evil 
passion  in  a  woman.  It  was  the  high-bred  delicacy  and  re 
finement — the  queenly  placidity — the  cool  reserve  and  stately 
dignity  of  Carolyn  Clifton,  that  had  attracted  his  first  admi 
ration.  And  though  he  sometimes  gallantly  complained  of 
her  cruelty,  he  would  not  have  had  her  manner  one  degree 
warmer.  But  now  this  fair,  cool,  peerless  queen  o'er  her 
self  and  her  emotions,  had  yielded  to  passions  that  might 
govern  a  serving-maid — to  suspicion,  jealousy,  and  fierce 
anger — had  descended  to  virulent,  vituperative  abuse  !  And, 
henceforth,  she  was  discrowned,  and  degraded  from  her  pride 
of  place. 

He  arrived  at  Hardbargain — gave  his  horse  in  charge  of 
a  servant,  and  entered  the  house. 

The  candles  were  just  lighted  in  the  parlor,  and  Mrs.  Clif~ 
ton  and  her  favorite  Kate  sat  sewing  by  the  work-stand.  As 
he  entered,  Kate  arose  as  usual  with  the  intention  of  with 
drawing,  but  he  signed  to  her  with  his  hand,  and  said  in  a 
tone  of  command — 

"  No — stay,  Catherine,  and  once  for  all  give  up  that  habit 
of  retiring  as  soon  as  myself  or  any  other  visitor  enters  " 

The  young  girl  returne^to  her  seat  and  resumed  her  work 
Then  with  a  sort  of  spirit  of  persecution  upon  him,  as  on* 
would  think,  he  went  to  the  maiden  and  inquired,  impa 
r,5er\tly  -  • 


108  THE       SEVERED      HEARTS. 

"  Why  do  you  always  do  that  ?  Whij  do  you  always  rise 
and  leave  as  soon  as  any  one  enters  the  room  ?" 

She  glanced  up  at  him  with  those  large,  shy  eyes,  and  in 
stantly  veiled  them  again,  while  the  blush  deepened  on  her 
cheek.  Her  heart — her  disobedient,  rebellious  heart,  that 
would  not  be  calm  when  she  bade  it — was  beating  fast  against 
her  bosom,  as  it  ever  beat,  when  he  looked  at  her,  or  spoke 
to  her.  To  have  saved  her  soul  alive,  she  could  not  have 
put  her  motive  into  words,  and  told  him  that  she  ever  feared 
her  society,  or  even  her  presence,  might  not  be  as  acceptable 
to  Mrs.  Clifton's  visitors  as  it  was  to  that  kind  lady  herself. 
She  only  bowed  her  head  and  blushed  the  deeper  that  she 
could  not  answer,  and  yet  deeper  still,  that  she  felt  him 
gazing  on  her.  He  was  gazing  on  her ! — gazing  down  on 
that  beautiful,  dark  auburn  hair,  rippling  and  glittering  under 
the  light  of  the  lamp — on  that  broad  monarchal  forehead,  on 
fhose  even  eyebrows  and  long  eyelashes,  dropping  fine 
shadows  on  the  glowing  cheek — yes  !  gazing  and  thinking  of 
Major  Cabell's  enthusiastic  admiration,  and  wondering  why 
all  the  world  did  not  agree  with  him  in  thinking  that  counte 
nance  grandly  beautiful !  Yet  even  while  admiring  her  so 
much,  he  spoke  angrily,  and  said — 

"  Catherine  !  You  have  a  second  habit  even  worse  than 
the  first !  Lately  you  have  taken  up  the  practice  of  not  re 
plying  to  me  when  I  ask  you  a  question — and  when  you  are 
obliged  to  raise  your  eyes  to  mine,  you  drop  them  instantly 
as  if  mine  burnt  them.  Now  I  have  always  disliked  and 
suspected  eyes  that  cannot  look  freely  into  other  eyes !" 

At  this  the  very  forehead  of  the  girl  burned  with  a  crimson 
flush.  Clifton  took  hold  of  her  hand,  which  fluttered  in  his 
own  like  a  frightened  bird,  and  said,  in  a  kinder  tone — 

"  Come,  my  child !  see  now  if  you  can  look  me  honestly 
in  the  face,  and  tell  me  why  you  will  not  talk  to  me  ?'' 

But  Kate's  distress  became  so  great  that  Mrs.  Clifton  in 
terposed,  and  said — 

«  Do,  Archer,  leave  her  alone !  It  does  seem  to  me,  SOD, 
that  you  take  a  malicious  pleasure  in  toriiienting  that  poor 
girl  because  she  is  so  shy  !  Don't  mind  him,  Kate  !  He  has 
been  a  tease  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  when  he  used  to  pull 
rhe  ears  of  kittens  and  puppy  dogs.  I'ake  up  your  work, 
thild,  and  hurry  on  with  it.  And  you,  Archer!  I  am  a* 


THE     SEVERED     HEARTS.  10'.* 

«;uch  surprised  as  pleased  to  see  you  back  here  to-night.  To 
what  am  I  indebted  for  the  pleasure  ?" 

"  My  dear  mother,  I  will  tell  you  after  awhile — let  me  bo 
quiet  now  a  little  time." 

And  Mrs.  Clifton  looked  up  in  surprise,  and  noticed,  foi 
the  first  time,  how  deeply  troubled  was  Archer  Clifton's  face- 
After  watching  him  a  few  minutes  as  he  sat  and  watched 
Kate,  she  said,  suddenly — 

"  Oh  !  I  have  a  letter  for  you — arrived  by  the  afternoon 
mail.  Henry  brought  it  from  the  post-office  this  evening 
after  you  left.  Perhaps  it  was  in  quest  of  that  you  came, 
and  its  contents  may  dispel  your  uneasiness,"  and  rising,  the 
lady  went  to  the  card  rack,  hanging  above  the  mantle-piece, 
and  brought  him  a  letter,  which  he  tore  open  and  read  hastily. 
Then  starting  up,  he  exclaimed,  "  Good  !  Good  !  Most  ex 
cellent,  most  opportune !" 

"What  is  it,  my  dear  Archer?  I  am  very  glad  it  gives 
you  such  satisfaction,  at  any  rate !  What  is  it?" 

u  An  order  from  head-quarters  to  join  my  regiment  imme 
diately,  to  take  command  of  a  detachment  to  march  within 
ten  days  for  the  Indian  frontier — to  put  down  an  insurrec 
tion  there !" 

"  No  !"  exclaimed  the  lady,  in  amazement. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  my  good  mother !"  replied  Archer  Clifton, 
txultingly. 

"  JVb  /  You  astonish  me  !  Ordered  upon  active  duty — 
upon  distant  and  dangerous  service  at  the  very  time  you  are 
about  to  be  married  !  Call  you  that  opportune — fortunate  ? 
{  call  it  most  inopportune,  wnfortunate  !" 

"  Ah  !  madam,  you  do  not  know !  What,  and  if  my  mar 
riage  were  already  broken  off!  Is  it  not  lucky — I  mean 
providential,  that  I  can  join  my  regiment  immediately,  and 
depart  for  a  distant  scene,  arid  active  service,  in  which  I  may 
f'-rget  the  sorrow  and  the  humiliation!" 

"  Your  marriage  broken  off"?  What?  Now,  at  the  last 
moment  1  A  marriage  that  has  been  looked  forward  to  foi 
so  many  years  ?-  To  be  broken  off  when  every  thing  is  re^dj ' 
Impossible,  it  cannot  be  !" 

"I  assure  you  upon  my  word,  madam,  it  is  but  to) 
true!" 

"  Why — what — do  you  tell  me  ?"  exclaimed  the  lady,  in 


110  THE       SEVERED       HEARTS 

increasing  astonishment.     "  When  did   it  happen  ? 
caused  it  1     Had  Mr.  Clifton  anything  to  do  with  it  V9 

"  It  happened  this  evening  after  my  return  to  Clifton.  Mr. 
Clifton  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  it — not  having 
reached  home  at  the  time  it  occurred.  It  was  occasioned  by 
a  most  humiliating  quarrel  between  myself  and  Miss  Clifton  !" 

"  Oh,  a  quarrel !  A  lovers'  quarrel !  That  is  nothing  ! 
Though,  in  truth,  it  surprises  me  that  the  calm,  proud  Caro 
lyn  should  descend  to  such  a  thing,  as  it  does  that  my  own 
son  should  deign  to  take  a  part  in  it.  But  it  is  really  no 
thing!  Such  things  occur  in  almost  every  courtship  !" 

"  And  those  who  quarrel  in  courtship  should  never  venture 
upon  oiatrimony." 

u  Ah  !  that  is  an  inhuman,  unfaithful  sentiment,  my  son  ! 
Young  people  are  like  other  young  natures,  petulant,  vain 
irascible,  exacting — but  life  trains  them  into  modesty,  so 
briety,  forbearance.  For  this  quarrel,  Archer,  it  must  be 
adjusted1  It  shall  be  to-morrow  morning!" 

"  No,  madam,  it  shall  not :  This  quarrel  is  irreconcilable, 
believe  me !" 

"Pooh,  pooh!     What!  with  Carolyn1?     Nonsense!" 

"  Mother !  you  shall  judge  !     She  has  descended  from  her 
high  place  of  maidenly  pride  and  delicacy,  and  betraying  the 
most  revolting  phases  of  suspicion,  jealousy  and  fierce  anger 
she  has  charged  me  with  infidelity,  base  treachery  and  vice  !>: 

"  Dreadful !  dreadful !  as  all  angry  words  and  acts  ever 
are  !  But  not  unpardonable  !  Spoken  in  the  frenzy  of  pas 
sion — they  will  be  retracted  to-morrow  !  And  then  you  must 
be  reconciled.  Things  must  go  on  as  they  have  been  planned 
There  must  be  no  discreditable  exposure  of  this  affray.  The 
marriage  must  take  place,  as  proposed,  to-morrow  evening 
Then,  if  you  must  join  your  regiment,  why  it  will  be  easily 
understood  that  you  must.  And  there  will  be  no  reproach 
under  those  circumstances  in  leaving  your  newly  wedded 
bride  under  her  father's  protection  !" 

"  Impossible,  madam !  Miss  Clifton  has  to-night  exhibited 
her  character  and  disposition  in  such  revolting  colors,  that  1 
?an  never,  never  take  her  to  my  bosom  !" 

"  You  are  angry  now,'  Archer  !  You  will  think  better  of 
it!  I  trust  in  Heaven  you  may  do  so  before  there  is  an  ex 
posure.  Think  what  will  be  the  astonishment  of  the  wed. 


THE     SEVERED     HEARTS.  Ill 

ding-company  who  will  assemble  to-morrow  evening— -the 
mortification  of  the  family  at  Clifton,  and  worse  than  all,  the 
scandal !  the  nine  days  wonder  !" 

"  I  thought  my  dear  mother  had  too  strong  a  mind  to  fear 
these  bugbears  of  the  little,  when  a  just  occasion  for  meeting 
and  braving  them  occurs." 

a  But  I  do  not  consider  this  an  adequate  occasion.  That 
this  quarrel  will  be  finally  adjusted,  I  firmly  believe.  Ami 
I  think  it  a  pity  and  a  shame  that  to-morrow  evening,  three 
hundred  guests  should  be  disappointed  and  dispersed,  to 
spread  a  subject  of  speculation  and  scandal  all  over  the 
country.  And  this  merely  because  you  will  yet  a  littlo 
longer  indulge  your  anger  '" 

" 1  am  not  angry,  mother.  If  I  were  only  angry  I  should 
let  the  marriage  go  on,  if  Miss  Clifton  thought  proper  to  do 
so,  for  I  should  know  that  my  anger  would  pass  away.  No, 
I  am  not  angry,  mother,  but  shocked,  repulsed,  and  totally 
estranged.  I  could  no  more  marry  Miss  Clifton  now,  than  I 
could  take  any  other  loathed  object  to  my  bosom!  The  idea 
makes  me  shudder !" 

"  Still  I  affirm  that  all  this  is  intense  anger,  nothing  else 
and  that  there  will  come  a  reaction.     Why  in  anger,  Arclier 
the  object  is  as  much  loathed  as  in  love  it  is  desired — but 
that  is  temporary,  and  this,  I  hope,  you  will  find  permanent 
I  hope,  at  bottom,  you  respect  Carolyn  ?    /  esteem  her.    She 
has  been  a  spoiled  child,  but  has  so  many  undeveloped  goocJ 
qualities,  that  she  only  wants  the  discipline  of  a  little  affec 
tion  to  make  her  a  very  excellent  woman.     I  shall  say  r  j 
more  about  this  affair  to-night,  but  wait  to  see  what  disposi 
tion  I  shall  find  you  in  to-morrow !" 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  instanly 
afterwards  Henny  cante  in  and  informed  her  mistress  that  Mr. 
Kavanagh  had  come  to  take  his  sister  home. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Kavanagh  to  sit  down  in  the  hall.  Put  up 
your  sewing,  Catherine,  my  dear!"  said  the  lady. 

Catherine  arose  to  fold  up  her  work,  while  Captain  Clifton 
looked  very  much  as  if  he  would  like  to  stop  her  again. 

"  Does  she  not  remain  with  you  at  night,  madam  ?" 

"  Certainly  not — her  brother  always  comes  for  her  at  bad- 
time." 

"  How  early  does  she  c^me  in  the  morning  ?" 


112  THE      SEVERED      HEARTS. 

"  She  never  comes  in  the  morning.  Catherine  has  nor 
own  domestic  affairs  to  attend  to  during  the  forenoon.  She 
never  gets  here  till  late  in  the  afternoon." 

"  Then  I  shall  not  see  her  to-morrow — not  see  her  again 
for  many  months — perhaps  never  see  her  again  !  Come  here, 
Catherine !" 

Catherine  came  to  his  side,  and  stood,  as  usual,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  her  cheek  painfully  flushed. 
lie  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  in  his  own,  while  he  said — 

"  Catherine !  you  have  heard  all  that  passed  between  my 
self  and  Mrs.  Clifton,  this  evening  t" 

A  quick,  short,  but  not  ungraceful  nod  was  all  her  answer. 

"  And  you  know  that  I  am  going  away  on  a  distant  and 
dangerous  service  ;  I  leave  here  very  early  in  the  morning — 
I  may  never  come  back,  Catherine,"  he  said,  slowly,  looking 
at  her  steadily 

Her  hand  in  his  grew  cold — her  cheek  paled — her  heart 
stopped  still  as  death — but  no  word  did  she  speak  in  reply. 

"  Catherine !  before  I  go,  I  intend  to  give  you  a  command — 
io  you  hear  me  ?" 

A  spasmodic  nod  was  her  reply. 

"  I  may  be  gone  many  years.  In  the  meanwhile  you  will 
grow  up  to  womanhood,  Catherine  ;  do  not  have  any  lovers — 
beaux — as  young  girls  call  them,  while  I  am  away — and  above 
all  things,  do  not  choose  a  husband  without  first  consulting 
me  through  my  mother." 

Not  knowing  what  to  reply  to  this,  Catherine  remained 
perfectly  silent. 

"  Will  you  obey  me  in  this,  girl?"  he  asked,  rather  impa* 
tiently. 

A  low,  earnest  choking  "  Yes  sir,"  was  her  answer. 

"  Kiss  me,  then !  for  I  may  never  /eturn,"  said  Archei 
Clifton,  folding  her  for  one  moment  to  his  bosom,  and  press 
ing  a  kiss  upon  her  full  lips. 

But  her  lips  grew  cold  at  the  touch — her  face  paled  and 
fell  away  from  his  bosom — her  form  drooped  and  sank  back 
over  his  arm,  where  she  lay  like  one  dead,  in  a  swoon. 

Surprised,  alarmed,  Clifton  raised  her  in  both  arms,  and 
hastened  to  the  lounge,  where  he  laid  her,  calling  to  his 
mother.  The  lady  came  forward  without  any  trepidation, 
«id  bringing  a  bottle  of  Hungary  water,  began  to  chafe  her 


THE  SEVERED  HEARTS.         113 

temples  and  face,  and  finally  gave  that  task  to  Clifton,  whilo 
e»he  herself  loosened  Kate's  dress. 

"  What  could  have  been  the  cause  of  this,  mother  ?  fe 
she  subject  to  these  attacks  ?" 

t:  I  never  knew  her  to  faint  before,  though  I  have  seen  r.ei 
ander  very  trying  circumstances  with  that  old  man,  ha 
grandfather." 

"  What  could  have  occasioned  it  ?" 

"  Why,  the  sudden  news  of  your  going  away  on  dangerouf 
jcrvice,  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  as  she  resumed  the 
bottle,  and  continued  to  chafe  the  girl's  face  and  hands. 
»'  The  child  loves  you,  Archer ;  she  has  a  very  grateful, 
affectionate  heart,  and  very  strong  feelings.  She  loves  us 
both.  And  wh^ii  you  bade  her  good-bye,  for  a  long  and 
perilous  absence,  is  it  strange  she  should  have  "been  over 
come?  When  sjtdters  talk  of  danger,  children  may  be 
/orgivea  for  beiii^'  frightened.  Do  go  and  tell  Kavanagh 
*hat  Kate  must  retrum  here  to-night,  and  dismiss  him." 

He  went,  and  betoie  he  came  back  again,  Kate,  with  a 
long  drawn  sigh,  had  u^e^ed  her  eyes  and  recovered. 

"You  must  raise  hti,  and  take  her  up  stairs,  my  dear 
Archer.  She  must  sufloi  .10  more  agitation  to-night,"  said 
Mrs.  Clifton. 

And  he  lifted  the  form  of  Catherine,  and  took  her  up  stairs, 
while  his  mother  called  Heruiy.  When  they  had  laid  the 
young  girl  on  a  bed,  and  left  li^r  to  the  care  of  Henny,  and 
had  returned  to  the  parlor  again — Captain  Clifton  said — 

"  Mother  !  take  care  of  that  ^;irl !  She  has  been  the  inno 
cent,  unconscious  cause  of  my  trouble  to-day,  but  I  cannot 
feel  dislike  or  even  indifference  towards  her.  Take  care  of 
that  humble  maiden,  mother,  as  if  she  were  your  daughter 
and  my  sister.  Don't  let  any  i  astic  beaux  come  near  her, 
mother.  I  cannot  endure  the  Mea  of  her  marrying,  or  *ven 
being  wooed  by  any  low,  miserable  fellow  of  her  brotner'a 
grade.  And  do  not  permit  any  young  gentleman  of  the 
neighborhood  to  trifle  with  her  heart,  or  endanger  her  good 
name.  You  know  how  easily,  even  without  her  fault,  that 
sole  possession  of  a  poor  maiden  is  lost.  The  thought  that 
such  an  unmerited  misfortune  should  befall  Kate,  exasperates 
me  beyond  measure,  and  I  feel  like  quarreling  with  the 
whole  order  of  society!" 


114  THE      SEVERED       HEARTS. 

"  What,  you  !  the  proud  conservator  of  rank  :  Truly 
Archer,  one  would  think  Carolyn  had  some  little  ground  of 
complaint !"  said  the  lady,  with  her  little,  low,  half  dignified, 
half  jolly  laugh. 

"  This  from  you  mother !"  exclaimed  Archer  Clifton,  re 
proachfully.  "  I  thought  you  knew  me  better.  You  do 
know  me  better !  But  I  must  have  some  hand  in  this  girl's 
good  fortune." 

Mrs.  Clifton,  who  was  walking  about  the  room,  quietly  set 
ting  things  in  order  for  the  night,  made  no  reply,  but  only 
smiled.  And  soon  after  she  lighted  a  night-lamp,  and 
placing  it  in  the  hand  of  her  son,  bade  him  good-night,  and 
retired  to  her  chamber.  Captain  Clifton  remained  pacing  up 
and  down  the  room,  in  troubled  thought,  some  time  after  she 
bad  eft,  before  seeking  his  own  couch. 


LOST     AFFECTION.  115 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

LOST   AFFECTION. 

f<  Oh!  cast  not  thou 

Affliction  from  thee!     In  this  bitter  world 
Hold  to  thy  heart  that  only  treasure  fast ; 
Watch — guard  it — s-uiFer  not  a  breath  to  dim 
That  bright  gem's  purity." — MRS.  HEMANS. 

MORNING  came  at  length.  Carolyn  Clifton  arose  unre- 
freshed,  weak,  dizzy  and  sick.  This  was  the  first  night's 
rest  she  had  ever  lost  in  her  life.  And  on  looking  in  the 
glass — habitually  the  first  thing  the  beauty  ever  did  after 
rising — she  was  shocked  to  see  what  havoc  one  night's  evil 
passions  had  made  in  her  appearance.  What  a  fright  she 
had  become!  How  pale  her  cheeks,  how  dragged  the 
muscles,  how  red,  dim,  and  sunken  her  eyes !  And  this 
upon  her  wedding-day — and  when  she  had  a  quarrel  to  malco 
up  with  her  intended  husband,  too !  When,  in  fine,  every 
circumstance  pressingly  demanded  that  she  should  appear  in 
the  highest  beauty.  Would  Archer  Clifton — would  that 
fastidious,  artistic  worshiper  of  the  beautiful — feel  inclined 
to  a  reconciliation  with  such  a  spectre  as  herself,  she  mentally 
inquired,  as  she  gazed  wonderingly,  deploringly,  upon  her 
haggard  face  ?  Carolyn  was  vain  and  proud  and  scornful — 
so  vain  and  proud  and  scornful  that  she  did  not  know — could 
not  imagine  that  that  very  haggard  face — haggard  with  sor 
row  for  the  estrangement  and  the  separation,  would  be  a 
stronger  appeal,  make  a  deeper  impression  upon  the  heart  of 
her  lover,  than  all  the  glory  of  her  beauty  had  ever  done. 
And  thus  vanity,  pride  and  scorn  punish  their  subject,  not 
only  by  depriving  her  of  very  much  respect  and  affection  sho 
would  otherwise  have,  but  by  making  her  insensible  of  that 
love  and  esteem  that  really  does  surround  her. 

Carolyn  at  length  rang  for  her  woman.  And  after  some 
Kttli  delay  she  came  in,  evidently  just  aroused  ap  out  of  her 


116  LOST      AFFECTION. 

"Jeep,  and  wondering  that  her  young  mistress  should  summon 
her  before  sunrise.  But  as  soon  as  she  saw  her  lady,  hei 
wonder  gave  way  to  alarm,  and  she  exclaimed — 

"My  good  gracious  alive,  Miss  Carolyn!  What's  der 
matter,  honey  ¥• 

.  "  Has any  one  arrived  this  ruorning,  Aunt  Darky  *" 

inquired  Miss  Clifton,  without  noticing  the  old  woman's 
alarm. 

"  No,  chile,  sure  not !  Who  should  ribe  at  dis  onlikely 
hour  ob  de  mornin?  Ledst  it  war  de  doctor.  Has  you 
sent  for  de  doctor,  honey  ?  But  Lord,  indeed,  chile,  you 
better  lay  down  agin.  Don't  keep  on  standin'  dere  holdin' 
up  your  hair,  weak  as  you  looks,  an'  I'll  run  an'  see !" 

"  Aunt  Darky,  I  am  not  ill.  1  have  had  a  bad  night's 
rest—that's  all.  Go— and— " 

"  A  bad  night's  res',  an'  like  enough,  honey !  I  had  t» 
berry  bad  night's  res'  de  night  afore,  me  an'  Old  Nick  took 
up  'long  o'  each  oder !  'Deed  chile,  I  was  sort  o'  scared 
an'  sorter  happy,  'cause  I  was  scared !  An'  deed,  chile, 
'tween  so  many  contradictions,  I  could'n  onderstan'  myself 
and  kept  awake  all  night !  Lord,  honey,  it's  nat'ral !  We's 
.-all  alike,  'cept  'tis  de  collor,  an'  dat's  only  outside  show, 
^kin  deep.  But  bless  you,  honey,  that  wan't  nothin'  to  the 
Anight  resses  I'se  lost  since  dat,  with  long  o'  cryiri'  babies  an' 
teethin'  babies,  an'  sick  chillun,  an'  ole  man  Nick  comin' 
home  drunk  ebery  time  ole  Marse  give  him  any  holyday 
money  to  spen'  on  hi-sself !  Now  praise  be  de  Lor',  de  cLil- 
lun's  all  raise'  an'  married  an'  settle'  off,  an'  I'm  a  frea 
'oman !  An'  I  tell  my  galls  how  I  ain'  gwine  be  bother* 
long  o'  der  chillun,  now  in  my  ole  days !" 

"  Aunt  Darky,"  said  Miss  Clifton,  feeling  in  no  way  flat/- 
tered  by  the  parallel,  "  go  and  get  my  bath  ready,  and  har« 
a  cup  of  strong  coffee  brought  the  instant  I  leave  it." 

"  Yes,  honey — an'  hadn't  de  baff's  water  better  have  d« 
air  tuk  off  o'  it,  as  you'se  not  so  strong  dis  mornin'  ?" 

Jc  Yes,  yes — what  makes  you  trouble  me  by  questions  * 
You  ought  to  know  what  is  proper  to  be  done." 

"  An'  so  I  allus  does  know,  honey — ony  when  I  doefr  my 
t^os'  properess',  you  doesn'n  alluz'  see  it  intc  dat  light  an 
you  fines  fau'rt  long  o'  me,"  said  the  old  body,  as  she  »<»il 
the  room. 


LOST     AFFEC110N.  117 

WheT.  Miss  Clifton  had  left  her  warm  bath,  and  had  par 
taken  of  the  rich  strong  coffee — strong  as  the  essence  of 
coffee,  and  made  rich  and  thick  by  being  half  cream  and 
sugar,  and  brought  to  her  in  a  tin}'  porcelain  cup,  she  felt 
sufficiently  refreshed  to  be  able,  with  the  assistance  of  her 
woman,  to  make  her  morning  toilet. 

When  she  had  finished  dressing  it  was  still  very  early,  and 
wo  hours  remained  before  breakfast — but  she  left  her  room, 
and  met  her  father,  who  was  an  early  riser,  in  the  upper 
hall. 

He  came  forward  and  kissed  her.  Then  held  both  her 
hands,  and  looked  in  her  face,  exclaiming — "  What !  pale, 
my  child?  Oh,  tut!  tut!  tut!  tut!  tut!  That's  all 
wrong!  All  wrong!" 

"  Father  !  has  he  come  yet  ?" 

"  No,  no — it's  quite  early  yet !  He'll  be  here  anon !  You 
should  not  have  risen  these  two  hours !" 

"  Father,  I  could  not  sleep !  I  could  not  even  lie  in 
bed!" 

"  Oh,  pooh !  pooh !  pooh !  All  folly !  All  nonsense ! 
Go  back  and  rest." 

iC  Father,  I  cannot !  My  words  to  him  were  so  wrong !  so 
bitter  !  so  insulting  !  I  feel  them  to  have  been  such,  and  I 
can  never  rest  until  I  have  told  him  so!"  said  Carolyn, 
dropping  her  head  upon  the  only  bosom  to  which  her 
haughty  heart  could  bear  to  confide  its  sorrow  and  its  re 
pentance. 

"  Well,  so  you  were  wrong,  very  wrong !  It  will  teach 
you  a  lesson  that  will  benefit  you  for  the  future.  And  for 
the  present  it  will  blow  over.  There,  there,  there — if  you 
can't  be  still,  go  and  amuse  yourself  by  making  me  a  nico 
mint-julep !  I  want  it  before  I  go  out  in  the  fields — the 
morning  air  on  my  empty  stomach  isn't  good  for  me." 

He  then  kissed  Carolyn  and  let  her  go.  As  she  left  him, 
he  saw  to  his  surprise  Frank  Fairfax  emerge  from  his  cham 
ber,  with  a  portmanteau  in  his  hand.  Frank  immediately  set 
it  down,  and  advancing,  said — 

"  Ah,  sir  !  I  was  just  about  to  seek  you,  to  let  you  know 
that,  to  my  infinite  regret,  I  must  leave  you  to-day." 

"  To  day  ?  You  astound  me  !  \Vhat  is  ip  now  I  You 
mustn't  go — you  shan't!" 


118  LOST      AFFECTION. 

"  Sir,  I  have  received  an  order  to  join  my  regiment  with 
put  delay!" 

"  Oh-h-h,  that's  bad  !  That's  bad !  Devil  fly  away  with 
military  life  !  That's  what  was  always  hiking  away  Archer 
at  the  very  time  I  wanted  him  most.  But  no  frantic  hurry ' 
You  needn't  go  to-day !  You  mustn't.  Why,  this  is  the 
wedding-day,  you  rascal !" 

"  I  know  it,  sir  !  But,  to  my  everlasting  regret,  I  must 
forego  the  pleasure  of  being  present  upon  that  occasion.  My 
order  is  a  peremptory  one,  to  join  my  regiment  instantly." 

"  Well,  well !  To-morrow'll  do  !  To-uiorrow'll  do  !  One 
day  cannot  make  so  much  difference  !" 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  surely  need  not  tell  you  that  soldiers 
should  be  <  minute  men'  in  their  obedience.  Besides,  if  I 
do  not  seize  the  opportunity  of  meeting  the  Staunton  stage 

as  it  passes  through  L to-night,  I  shall  have  to  wait 

three  days  for  the  next  stage.     So,  you  see — " 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  see !  I  am  always  called  upon  to  see  some 
thing  I  don't  want  to  see !  Ah  !  here  comes  the  mint-julep ! 
Did  Miss  Carolyn  mix  it  f 

This  was  addressed  to  the  colored  boy  who  brought  a  pint 
tumbler  on  a  little  waiter. 

"  Yez,  zur,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Do  you  take  julep  in  the  morning,  Frank  ?  Try  this. 
Another  julep  for  me,  Nace  !" 

"  No,  no,  I  thank  you,  sir !  I  never  do.  I  wish  you 
good-morning  till  breakfast  time,"  said  Frank,  taking  up  his 
portmanteau,  and  going  down  stairs. 

Frank  put  his  little  burden  down  in  the  lower  hall,  and 
went  into  the  summer  saloon,  where  he  was  sure,  by  the  pre 
cedent  of  the  last  thirty  days,  of  finding  Zuleime  at  the 
window,  doing  her  sampler-work.  Yes,  there  she  was,  in  her 
white  muslin  and  coral,  with  her  jet  black  hair  and  damask 
cheeks!  He  went  and  sat  down  by  her,  (after  savin j? 
"Good-morning,")  and  sat  for  some  minutes  in  perfect 
silence,  watching  Zuleime  work  the  word  £ODI%  in  crimson 
silk.  At  length — 

"  WThom  do  you  love  best  in  the  world,  Zuleime  ?"  he 
aekcd. 

"  How  can  you  ask  ?     Whom  does  everybody  love  best  ?~ 


LOST     AFFECTION.  119 

her  nain  sell,'  as  the  Welchman  says,  of  course!"  exclaimed 
the  merry  maiden. 

"Humph!  Well,  whom  do  you  love  the  next  best  to 
yourself?" 

"  Why,  let  me  see,"  said  the  girl,  pausing  thoughtfully, 
with  her  needle  poised  in  her  hand ;  "  I  think,  that  next  to 
myself,  I  love — Zuleime  Clifton  best  of  all  the  world  !" 

"  I  thought  so  !  And  I  can  lay  my  hand  upon  my  heart, 
and  say,  that  you  don't  love  Zuleime  Clifton  a  whit  better 
than  I  do  ! — no,  nor  half  so  well !  I'll  throw  down  my  gage 
on  that,  and  fight  it  out  to  extremity  !  Come  ! — What  have 
you  to  say  to  that?"  asked  the  young  man,  with  all  the 
earnestness  in  his  face  and  manner  that  his  light  words 
wanted — "  say,  speak  !  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

<c  Why,  that  you  are  as  foolish  as  Zuleime  herself,  in 
bving  such  a  little,  out-of-the-way  baggage,  that  is  neither 
woman  nor  child,  nor  good  nor  bad,  nor  any  thing  else  in 
particular." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate,  we  both  agree  in  loving  and  worship 
ing  Zuleime,  however  we  may  differ  in  our  opinion  of  her — 
7,  for  instance,  thinking  her  a  beautiful,  joyous,  delightful 
irl.  So,  it's  settled,  isn't  it?" 

«  What  is  settled  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  know,  you  tease  !" 

"  I  know  the  weather  is  settled,  if  you  mean  that!" 

"Pooh!" 

"  I  don't  know  that  the  naval  trouble  with  Great  Britain 
>s  settled,  if  you  mean  that  /" 

"Pooh,  pooh!" 

"  I  know  that  the  marriage  dower  of  thirty  thousand  dol 
lars  is  settled  upon  Carolyn,  if  you  mean  that!" 

"  Pooh,  pooh,  pooh  !" 

"  Well,  I  shall  not  try  to  guess  again,  lest  you  should  say, 
*Pooh,  pooh,  pooh,  pooh!9 — four  times  !" 

"Zuleime!"  said  the  young  man,  earnestly,  "I  think, 
without  presumption,  I  may  say  that  I  know  your  disposition 
towards  me.  Zuleime,  I  wish  that  we  should  pass  all  op- 
iives  together,  side  by  side !  I  would  like  to  open  my  hesy- 
and  bid  you  look  into  it  and  read  for  yourself.  I  hatible 
say,  <  I  love  you,'  (though  if  you  could  look  into  my  hrrgeth 
m,  that  phrase,  « I  love  you,'  Zuleime,  is  so  fallen  think. 


120  LOST       AFFECTION. 

prostituted,  so  degraded  from  ifs  high  meaning — <  1  Jovt  you 
so  often  means  «  I  need  your  wealth,'  « need  your  family  in 
fluence,'  « I  desire  your  delightful  beauty."  01 1,  Zuieime, 
dearest  girl,  how  then  shall  I  express  my  true,  sincere,  earn 
est  devotion  to  you  ?" 

"  You  needn't — I  know  you  like  me,  Frank,"  murmured 
Zuleirne,  very  low.  And  then  she  added,  lower  still — "  But 
I  am  nothing  but  a  wild  school  girl,  and,  seriously,  I  fear  it 
isn't  right  for  me  to  listen  to  such  words  for  y^ars  to  3ome 
yet.  And  I  fear  father  might  not  like  it,  only  that  he  likes 
you  so  very  well." 

And  Zuieime  bent  over  her  sampler,  diligently,  commenc 
ing  the  next  word,  ijape,  in  azure  silk. 

"  I  know  it,  Zuieime  !  Dear,  candid  girl,  I  know  it  all— 
all  the  seeming  error !  But,  Zuieime,  I  am  going  away  to 
day,"  (she  looked  up  in  surprise,)  "  and  I  may  be  gone  for 
several  years.  When  I  come  back  I  shall  certainly  return 
a  captain,  if  not  probably  a  major,  or  possibly  a  colonel. 
Before  I  go,  I  wish  to  have  a  fair  understanding  with  your 
self  and  your  father,  so  that  I  may  go  away  with  some  feel 
ing  of  security.  I  want  you  both  to  promise  that  when  1 
return  you  will  give  me  your  hand." 

f-  "  Ycu  may  speak  to  father,  Frank.  But  I  tell  you  frankly 
now,  what  I  wish  you  had  heard  before.  It  is  this  : — that  I 
have  been  promised  to  my  grim  cousin,  Major  Cabell,  ever 
since  I  can  remember  anything.  And  till  you  came,  I  have 
always,  whenever  1  have  anticipated  the  future  at  alls-looked 
forward  to  being  his  hum-drum  wife,  and  living  in  a  grim 
three-story  red  brick,  in  a  row,  and  opposite  another  row  of 
sthT,  prison-like  red  brick  houses,  each  one  of  which,  taken 
singly,  is  more  dreary  than  all  the  rest.  I  didn't  like  the 
prospect,  Frank  ;  hut  I.  thought  it  was  my  fate,  and  the  best 
father  could  do  for  me,  and  so  I  thought  of  no  other  possi 
bility  but  the  grim  red  brick  house  in  the  city  and  Major 
Cabell.  Besides,  father  is  so  good  a  father,  and  so  fond  and 
indulgent,  that  it  seemed  too  wicked  to  think  of  disappoint/- 
ing  his  gentle  wishes,  that  never  take  the  form  of  commands 
And  so,  Frank,  although  whenever  I  would  think  of  the 
grim  brick  house,  with  tall  dark  chambers,  and  the  narrow, 
stony,  distracting  street  before  it,  and  Major  Cabell,  my 
b  »rt  wouli  sink  very  heavy,  and  I  would  think,  young  as  I 


LOST     AFFECTION.  121 

was,  that  there  was  scarcely  any  hope  for  me  at  all — yet,  I 
would  recollect  my  dear  good  father  wished  it,  and  I  would 
pluck  up  my  spirits  and  feel  blithe  as  a  bird  again.  It  wa9 
all  understood  at  the  school  where  I  am  getting  finished,  as 
tlioy  call  it.  And  father  left  word  that  Major  Cabell  should 
be  admitted  to  visit  me.  So  when  I  am  there  he  comes  to 
risit  me  frequently,  and  takes  me  out  riding,  or  driving,  and 
to  concerts.  And  the  girls  whisper  together,  and  say  that  I 
am  engaged — " 

«  Stop — stop — stop — stop  !  Pardon  me,  Zuleime  !  Par 
don  me,  dear  girl !  But,  I  am  giddy — indeed,  I  am  ill ! 
Have  you  yourself  promised  to  marry  him  ?" 

"  No,  surely  not ;  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  consider 
myself  in  some  sort  free — but  of  my  duty  to  my  good  father. 
No,  he  has  never  even  asked  me.  He  considers  my  father's 
promise  quite  sufficient,  and  our  marriage  quite  a  matter  of 
course.  And  so  I  used  to  consider  it,  too.  These  things 
are  often  done,  Frank.  These  betrothals,  I  mean.  Any 
one  might  suppose  the  custom  obsolete — having  died  in  the 
dark  ages.  It  is  not.  It  prevails  here  to  a  considerable  ex 
tent.  It  is  done  to  keep  family  property  together,  or  family 
interest  closely  cemented.  And,  Frank,  he  has  never  courted 
me  yet.  You  see  he  considers  me  a  child  still.  And  so  I 
am,  compared  to  him,  in  years.  And  so  I  should  be,  in  all 
things,  a  child,  but  that  the  shadow  of  that  grim  brick  house 
is  always  falling  on  my  heart !" 

"  And  yet,  with  all  this,  you  are  a  very,  very  merry 
maiden !" 

"  Yes,  so  I  am.  I  try  to  be  !  I  keep  a  din  up  in  my 
head  to  prevent  me  hearing  what  my  heart  wants  to  say  ! 
Goodness !  I  can  do  nothing  for  the  poor  thing,  you  know, 
and  what's  the  use  of  stopping  to  listen  to  its  cry  ? — thai 
would  only  encourage  it  to  complain  the  more.  Don't  look 
so  sorry,  Frank  !  It  is  not  all  effort !  It  could  not  be,  you 
know  I'm  naturally  of  a  glad,  elastic  temper  ;  and  but  for 
this  drawback,  Heaven  knows  what  I  should  be  !  the  wildest, 
maddest,  most  harem-scarem,  most  heels-over-head,  skip- 
ovcr-the-moon  madcap  that  ever  turned  a  quiet  home  topsy 
turvy,  and  drove  a  quiet  family  to  distraction  !  The  Bible 
«ays, — <  God  loveth  whom  He  chasteneth,  and  scoiirgeth 
every  son  (a,nd  daughter)  whom  Ele  receiveth.'  Then  I  think. 


122  LOST       AFFECTION. 

(I  do  think,  sometimes,  young  and  volatile  as  I  am,)  I  thinl< 
(bat  every  one  whom  God  redeems  has  some  sorrow,  and  that 
that  sorrow  is  always  the  precise  on  3  fitted  to  cure  their  be 
setting  sin  !  As  the  proud  are  still  kept  down  by  poverty 
ai.d  oppression,  the  vain  lose  their  charms,  or  the  power  of 
enhancing  them,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  among  all  the  erring  whom 
God  designs  to  set  right.  And  I,  who  am  naturally  so  wild 
and  thoughtless,  must  be  sobered  and  mnde  thoughtful  by 
the  prospect  of  that  prison  before  me !" 

"  Zuleime,  does  this  man  love  you  ?" 

"  Frank,  if  I  say  he  does  not  hate  me,  it  is  the  extent  of 
all  favorable  things  I  can  say  about  the  state  of  his  mind 
towards  me.  No,  he  does  not  love  me.  It  is  entirely  a  be 
trothal  of  convenience.  Sometimes  I  look  forward  to  my 
future  life  in  that  great  unknown  city,  which  I  should  dislike 
under  any  circumstances,  and  especially  to  pass  my  whole 
life  in,  with  one  I  do  not  like,  and  who  does  not  like  me,  and 
I  wonder  how  I  shall  contrive  to  exist, — /,  who  love  to  be 
in  the  country,  on  this  dear  old  homestead,  with  my  fond  old 
father  and  my  tender  old  nurse,  and  the  colored  folks  who 
love  me  so  well, — and  where  I  have  so  many  occupations, — 
and,  oh,  my  soul  and  body  !  I  think  how  shall  I  ever  put 
life  through  in  that  packed  up  city  !  Sometimes  I  think — 
for  I  must  have  something  to  occupy  my  whole  soul  with— 
that  I  will  be  very  gay  and  worldly,  and  dress,  and  visit,  and 
give  balls,  and  go  to  balls,  and  theatres ;  but  then  again  I 
reflect  that  it  would  be  wicked  to  spend  all  one's  time  and 
attention  upon  such  things.  And  then  I  think  I  shall  try  to 
grow  serious  enough  to  join  a  church,  and  that  I  will  be  a 
leading  member,  and  a  Sunday  School  teacher,  and  a  patron 
ess  of  the  Bible  Society,  and  of  the  Missionary  Society,  and 
a  getter-up  of  new  kinds  of  benevolent  associations,  and 
Dorcas  circles,  and  be  a  Committee  woman,  and  a  distributor 
of  tracts,  and  a  collector  of  subscriptions,  etc.  One  mutt 
d  >  something  to  fill  up  the  long,  long  days ;  one  must  live 
somehotf,  and,  upon  the  whole,  I  thought  this  latler  plan 
might  do,  as  it  would  occupy  me  entirely,  and  is  not  so 
wicked  as  the  other." 

•'•  Ah,  I  don't  know  that,  Zuleime  !  But,  my  dearest  girl, 
[.•ease  all  these  troubbd  thoughts  about  the  futuip,  unnatural 
•o  your  ag%  and  unwholesome  to  yourself;  'This  whole 


LOST     AFFECTION.  123 

cloud  must  be  swept  away  like  a  cobweb.  He  doesn't  love 
you.  You  don't  love  him.  He  Las  never  asked  you  to 
marry  him.  You  have  never  promised  to  do  so.  It  is  a 
mere  betrothal  of  convenience,  made  by  the  parents  of  both 
for  the  purpose  of  keeping  family  property  togather,  and 
cementing  family  interests.  Oh,  it  is  all  wrong !  And  there 
is  nothing  in  it !  I  will  speak  to  your  father.  I  will  enter 
the  lists  with  this  Major  Cabell,  as  a  competitor  for  your 
hand.  In  all  worldly  circumstances,  which  are  ever  of  the 
greatest  value  in  a  Clifton's  estimation — in  family,  wealth 
and  social  position,  I  am  his  peer.  Besides,  I  wear  my  lady's 
favor,  which  he  does  not !  I  will  go  to  your  father  now  and 
tell  him  as  much,  shall  I,  Zuleime  ?" 

The  young  lady  was  busy  threading  her  needle  with  golden 
yellow  silk,  and  did  not  answer.  He  repeated  the  question. 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Zuleime,  beginning  to  embroider  the 
last  word  of  the  trio, — JFuitl], — in  sunbeam  silk.  No  time 
was  to  be  lost.  He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  darted 
out  upon  the  lawn  to  meet  old  Mr.  Clifton,  whom  he  saw  ap 
proaching  the  house. 

"  My  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fairfax,  rather  excitedly 
"  I  have  something  of  the  utmost  importance  to  say  to  you 
Will  you  take  a  turn  with  me  ?" 

"My  dear  sir!"  repeated  the  old  gentleman,  smiling, 
"  breakfast  is  ready  !  Let's  go  on  to  the  house  !" 

"  But  my  dear  sir !  my  business  is  urgent !" 

"  My  very  dear  sir !  the  coffee  is  getting  cold  !"  said  the 
old  man,  laughing  at  Frank's  excitement. 

"  Mr.  Clifton,"  said  the  young  man,  gravely  and  sadly, 
"  immediately  after  breakfast  I  must  leave  here.  This,  then, 
is  the  only  opportunity  I  have  or  shall  have  of  communicating 
to  you  what  is  on  my  heart  to  say — and  it  really  is  on  my 
heart." 

"  Say  on  then,  my  dear  boy !  say  on !"  exclaimed  th* 
benevolent  old  gentleman.  But  Frank,  now  that  he  had  got 
leave  to  speak,  was  struck  dumb.  He  thought  it  was  per 
fectly  easy  and  simple  to  ask  for  Zuleime,  but  now  the  re 
quest,  like  Macbeth's  amen,  stuck  in  his  throat.  "  Come,'* 
said  the  old  gentleman,  running  his  fat  arm  through  Frank's 
slender  one,  u  give  me  the  support  of  your  arm,  for  1  am  not 
so  young  and  active  as  vou  are,  and  let  us  take  a  little  walk 


124  LOST      AFFECTION. 

up  the  path  towards  Hardbargain.  Perhaps  we  may  meet 
Archer,  and  bring  him  back  with  us  to  breakfast.  He  is  not 
at  the  house,  is  he  ?" 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Frank,  glad  to  recover  the  use  of  hia 
t{  ngue. 

"  We  expect  him  here  to  breakfast.  We  shall  probably 
meet  him.  Gome !  Well,  now  !  what  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  as 
they  turned  their  backs  on  the  house. 

Frank  had  plucked  up  his  courage,  and  now  spoke  to  tho 
purpose. 

"  Mr.  Clifton,  as  I  am  going  away  immediately  after  break 
fast,  and  as  I  am  to  be  absent  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time, 
I  wish  before  I  leave  to  tell  you  that  which  lies  upon  my 
heart — "  here  he  paused  a  little  time  to  collect  his  thoughts 
and  fine  words,  while  the  old  gentleman  attended  with  an 
encouraging  expression  of  countenance.  Frank  resumed — 
"  Mr.  Clifton,  I  love  your  daughter  Zuleime.  And  I  have 
come  to  beg  your  sanction  to  our  engagement!"  As  the  old 
man  only  said,  "  Whew-w-w-w  !"•  Frank  continued — "You 
know  my  rank  in  the  army,  and  my  prospect  of  promotion. 
You  are  acquainted  with  my  family,  and  are  aware  of  their 
interest  and  influence  in  the  country.  Allow  me  farther  tc 
add,  that  my  own  private  fortune  amounts  to  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  And  I  will  settle  thirty  thousand  on  my  bride. 
Besides  which — " 

"  Stay,  stay — my  dear  fellow,  stay  !"  interrupted  the  old 
man,  with  a  troubled  look.  "  This  is  all  nonsense,  now ! 
Zuleime  is  a  child.  And  you  have  not  known  her  more  than 
six  weeks.  Love  Zuleime!  Pooh,  pooh!  You  young  men 
are  so  flighty  and  fickle  in  your  fancies !  You  get  frantic 
about  every  new  face  you  see,  and  think  yourselves  in  love ! 
Pooh,  pooh !  Now,  Frank,  my  boy,  come !  let's  hear  no 
more  of  it !  It's  all  nonsense  !  You  young  officers  are  always 
in  love,  or  fancying  yourselves  so !  I  dare  say,  you  have 
been  in  love  with  all  the  daughters  of  all  your  commanders, 
and  Heaven  forefend,  a  little  platonically  smitten  with  all 
their  wives,  too  !  Come,  I  know  you !  Nonsense !  Let's 
hear  no  more  of  it!" 

"  Mr.  Clifton,  I  am  no  trifler  in  matters  of  the  affection? 
I  nev3r  have  been.  I  never  shall  be,  I  hope  !  And  when  T 
f.ell  y  3u,  unon  my  sacred  honor,  that  never  in  my  life  have  1 


LOST     AFFECTION.  125 

'flirted,  a3  it  is  called,  with  a  woman — that  never  in  my  life 
have  I  either  loved  or  addressed  the  language  of  love  to  a 
woman — except  Zuleime — you  will  believe  me!" 

"Oh-h-h-h!"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman,  with  an  ex 
ceedingly  bored  look.  "  It's  all  folly,  all  nonsense,  I  tell 
you:  A  sudden  fancy!  Nothing  more!  Let's  drop  the  subject.'' 

"  Mr.  Clifton,"  said  the  young  man,  gravely  and  sorrowfully, 
for  he  saw  that  the  old  gentleman  rather  evaded  than  denied 
or  accepted  his  suit,  "  I  have  never,  in  my  whole  life,  been 
addicted  to  taking  sudden  and  evanescent  fancies,  as  you 
might  judge,  from  what  I  told  you !  And  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  love  your  daughter  Zuleime,  I  mean  that  I  love  her 
sincerely  and  earnestly,  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul — and 
that  I  shall  love  her  to  the  last  hour  of  my  life  "' 

«  Bah  !  bah !  It's  all  torn-foolery,  I  tell  you !  You  get 
yourself  shut  up  in  a  country  house  with  a  pretty  girl,  and 
of  course,  you  fall  in  love  with  her  !  To  be  sure  !  What  else 
could  you.  do  ?  It's  expected  of  you  !  You'd  disappoint  us  if 
you  didn't !  But  it  is  such  love  as  will  not  outlast  your 
journey  to  your  regiment." 

"  It  will  outlast  my  life  !  I  know  it  will !  I  feel  it  will !" 
said  Frank,  earnestly,  vehemently. 

"  Tah !  tah !  tah  ! — you'll  fall  desperately  in  love  with  the 
first  pretty  squaw  of  the  friendly  tribes  who  shall  come  to 
bring  moccasins  to  your  frontier  fort !" 

"  Oh,  God  !"  groaned  the  young  man,  bitterly,  dropping 
his  face  into  his  hands.  "  There  is  no  way  of  making  a 
serious  impression  upon  you,  and  I  am  going  away  in  two 
hours  !"  His  tone  and  manner  so  affected  the  really  impres 
sible  and  benevolent  old  gentleman,  that  he  half  embraced 
him  with  his  fat  arm,  saying — 

«  Now  don't,  Frank  ! '  Do  be  a  good  boy  !  Don't !  Do ! 
It's  all  folly  now !  Indeed  it  is  !  Do  !  Don't !  Now  con 
sider — how  many  pretty  girls  there  are  in  the  world  !  Don't, 
Frank !  A  great  deal  prettier  than  my  girl.  Never  fret 
about  her.  .Do,  Frank.  Besides,  she's  so  young !  A  mere 
school-girl.  Only  fifteen  last  Monday.  Pooh,  pooh  !  Not 
to  be  thought  of,  you  know!  Far  too  young!" 

"  Sir,  I  can  wait.    I  only  wish  your  sanction  to  our  engage- 
iheiit.     I  can  wait  three  or  four  years,  if  necessary,  or  any 
length  of  time  at  all,  if  I  may  hope  to  get  her  at  last !" 
8 


126  LOST      AFFECTION. 

«  She  is  too  young,  I  tell  you,  Frank !  Too  young  to 
know  her  own  mind.  Only  fifteen.  Ridiculous!" 

"But,  sir,  I  have  heard  of  gentlemen  older  and  more 
settled  than  myself  who  have  actually  married  girls  of  fifteen. 
/  only  ask  an  engagement  I" 

"  You  mean  me,  you  dog !  I  know  you  do !  I  see  you  do ! 
But,  Frank,  seriously  and  solemnly,  I  wouldn't  do  so  again ! 
And  for  the  very  reason  that  /  committed  that  egregious 
folly,  that  bitter  wrong  against  a  young  girl,  I  will  not  suffer 
any  one  else  to  do  the  same  wrong  to  my  child,  if  I  can  help 
it!" 

"  No,  Mr.  Clifton — pardon  me,  but  are  you  not  about  to 
commit  a  more  grievous  wrong  to  your  own  lovely,  gentle 
child  1  Have  you  not  ?  Pardon  me  !  Pardon  me  !  But  have 
you  not  promised  her  hand  where  she  cannot  give  her  heart?" 

"  No !  Heaven  forbid  !  I  promised  her  to  Charley  Cabell. 
She  used  to  like  him  very  well.  I  did  the  best  I  could  for  her 
happiness.  I  have  secured  it — unless — unless — oh,  my  God, 
Frank !"  suddenly  exclaimed  the  old  man,  in  his  turn  ex 
tremely  agitated,  and  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
"  I  hope — I  trust  in  God  you  haven't  entrapped  her  affec 
tions  !  Frank  !  Frank  !  She  is  engaged  to  Major  Cabell ! 
I  didn't  tell  you  so  when  you  first  asked  me  for  her,  because 
— because — for  many  reasons — "  (wiping  the  streaming  per 
spiration  from  his  brow)  "  it  is — it  is — disagreeable  to  re 
member  and  to  talk  about  it !  But — but — she  is  engaged  to 
Major  Cabell,  and — and  for  many  reasons — family  reasons — 
it  is  necessary  that  the  engagement  should  be  fulfilled  i 
Unless — unless — some  inevitable,  insurmountable  obstacle 
was  to  arise  and  prevent  it !  Frank !  Frank !  I  am  in  a 
great  strait !  a  dire,  doleful  strait !  but — but — sooner  than 
make  my  girl  wnhappy,  or  stand  in  the  way  of  her  perfect 
happiness,  I  would — I  would — I  would  die  in  a  jail !  Where 
I  may  die  !  Where  I  may  die  !"  Nothing  could  exceed  *ho 
force  of  the  emotion  that  agitated  the  old  ma«,  shaking  hi8 
Luge  form,  and  choking  up  his  utterance. 

Mr.  Fairfax  looked  at  him  witt  mingled  astonishment, 
wonder  and  compassion. 

"  Boy — boy — you  haven't  entrapped  my  dear  child's 
heart?"  again  inquired  the  old  gentleman,  trembling  witb 
excess  of  feeling. 


LOST     AFFECTION.  127 

"  Entrapped  is  not  exactly  the  word,  sir,"  said  Frank, 
proudly  and  mournfully.  "  I  learned  to  love  her,  and  I 
won  her  love  without  designing  to  do  either  !" 

"Lost !  Lost!"  cried  Mr.  Clifton,  droppinghis  head  upor 
his  bosom.  He  walked  on  in  sile-ace  so  desponding,  that 
Fairfax  could  not  bring  himself  to  intrude  upon  it.  They 
went  on  until  they  suddenly  met  J\lajor  Cabell  himself  coming 
down  the  hill,  apparently  from  Hardbargain. 

The  Major  was  walking  slowly,  with  his  head  down,  and 
twirling  around  his  finger  a  topaz  necklace.  As  soon  as  ho 
perceived  Messrs.  Clifton  and  Fairfax,  his  forehead  flushed, 
and  he  hastily  crammed  the  necklace  into  his  vest  pocket. 
Frank  thought  the  whole  thing  strange,  but,  but  stranger 
still  was  the  conduct — the  metamorphosis — the  transfigura 
tion  of  Mr.  Clifton,  who,  upon  observing  the  Major,  instantly 
put  a  violent  constraint  upon  himself,  and  became  the  broad- 
faced,  rosy,  smiling,  blue-eyed,  debonnair  old  gentleman,  so 
lavish  in  the  display  of  his  fine  teeth,  and  hearty,  cordial 
words  and  smiles.  Frank  was  provoked  that  their  conversa 
tion  was  so  completely  arrested. 

"  Ah,  good  morning,"  said  Mr.  Clifton,  addressing  the 
Major.  "  Been  to  Hardbargain  this  morning  so  early  ?  How 
are  all  the  folks  up  there  ?  See,  Archer  ?  Why  didn't  ho 
walk  with  you  ?  Eh  ?  Expected  him  !" 

"  I  have  not  been  to  Hardbargain,  sir,"  replied  the  Major, 
rather  morosely. 

"  Been  out  taking  a  morning  stroll  then,  eh  ?  Fine  appe 
tite  for  breakfast,  no  doubt.  And  it  is  waiting  for  us,  too. 
Come,  Frank,  let's  turn  about." 

They  did  so.  Frank  now  noticed  for  the  first  time  that 
the  manner  of  the  old  gentleman  was  conciliating,  while  that 
of  the  Major  was  surly. 

They  soon  reached  the  house,  and  the  breakfast-room, 
where  the  ladies  were  awaiting  their  arrival. 

As  they  entered,  the  countenance  of  Carolyn  Clifton  was1 
flushed  and  eager.  But  when  they  had  all  got  in,  and  were 
seated  at  the  table,  the  color  died  out  of  her  face,  leaving 
her  pale  as  marble.  She  merely  trifled  with  her  breakfast, 
pretending  to  eat,  but  no  morsel  passed  her  lips.  When 
breakfast  was  over,  and  the  company  dispersed  about  the 


1'28  LOST      AFFECTION. 

room,  Carolyn  almost  reeled  past  her  father  in  gcing  out,  and 
muttered  with  pale  lips — "  Father!  Not  come  yet  ?" 

"  Never  mind !  Never  mind,  my  dear !  I  will  ride  up  to 
Hardbargain  and  fetch  him." 

*»  Not  "for  the  universe,  father!  if  he  never  comes!"  re* 
plied  the  determined  girl,  plucking  up  her  spirit,  and  sweep 
ing  proudly  past  and  going  into  the  piazza,  where  she  sat, 
by-the-bye,  with  her  eyes  strained  up  the  mountain-path  by 
which  he  ought  to  come. 

Frank  got  no  opportunity  of  speaking  alone  with  Zuleime. 
Old  Mr.  Clifton  met  him,  however,  when  he  came  in  from 
looking  after  his  horse,  and  said,  kindly  patting  him  on  the 
/shoulder — 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  boy,  I  don't  see  the  least  necessity  for 
your  leaving  us  until  after  dinner.  The  stage  coach  doesn't 
pass  through  L —  —  till  eight  o'clock  at  night,  and  five  or 
six  hours  is  ample  time  in  which  to  reach  there !" 

"  Yes,  sir !  I  grant  it,  but  I  have  to  go  this  morning  to 
Hardbargain  to  take  leave  of  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  of  my  friend 
Archer,  if,  indeed,  the  latter  is  not  ordered  on  the  same  duty 
as  myself,  which,  upon  Miss  Clifton's  account,  I  am  inclined 
to  fear !" 

"  Oh !  Are  you  going  to  ride  to  Hardbargain  ?  Then, 
perhaps,  you  will  be  pleased  to  learn  that  Zuleime  is  going 
there  this  morning,  also,  to  assist  Mrs.  Clifton  in  putting  the 
last  finishing  touches  to  her  dress  for  this  evening.  And  you 
can  escort  her !"  said  Georgia,  smoothly  gliding  between  them, 
and  laying  her  head  and  hand  with  child-like  freedom  and 
affection  upon  the  old  man's  shoulder. 

"  Oh !  I  shall  be  very  happy  !"  said  Frank,  "  really  happy 
—nay,  overjoyed,  intoxicated,  with  the  prospect  of  an  unin 
terrupted,  farewell  tlte-a-tete  with  Zuleime." 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  looked  rather  disappointed,  but  he  was 
not  of  a  very  combative  disposition — especially  had  he  no  in 
clination  to  contradict  Georgia.  Besides,  he  at  once  reflected 
that  there  was  really  no  danger.  They  couldn't  be  married 
in  the  neighborhood,  because  they  could  get  no  license,  and 
DO  clergyman  dare  marry  them  without  one.  And  it  was  not 
probable,  or  even  possible,  that  Frank  would  elope  with  his 
daughter  oc  the  very  eve  of  joining  his  regiment  for  a  distant 
*nd  dangerous  service.  In  truth,  he  felt  it  was  folly  t« 


LOSI     AFFECTION.  129 

cherish  a  misgiving.  And  yet  he  had  misgivings,  nor  could 
he  banish  them — the  utmost  extent  of  his  self-control  was— 
not  to  act  upon  them — not  to  forbid  their  riding  together 
While  Zuleime  was  putting  on  her  hat  and  riding  habit, 
Frank  got  the  ear  of  the  old  gentleman  once  more,  and  for 
the  last  time.  The  old  man  had  sunk  into  his  broad- 
bottomed  flag  chair  in  the  hall,  with  his  thick  gold-headed 
stick  between  his  knees,  and  his  two  hands  and  his  chin  rest 
ing  upon  it,  when  Frank  stood  before  him  with  folded  arms 
%nd  head  dropped  upon  his  breast,  and  said — 

"  Mr.  Clifton — once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  I  ask  you, 
and  I  implore  you  to  answer  me  candidly.  Is  there  any  pos 
sibility  that,  under  any  change  of  circumstances,  at  any  future 
time,  I  may  hope  for  your  consent  to  my  union  with  Zu 
leime  ?" 

The  earnestness,  deepening  almost  into  solemnity,  of  the 
young  man's  manner  and  words,  impressed  Mr.  Clifton  very 
deeply,  but  he  replied — "  Mr.  Fairfax,  it  is  best  to  speak  the 
plain,  harsh,  cutting  truth,  though  that  truth  is  the  axe  laid 
to  the  root  of  all  your  hopes  of  Zuleime.  No.  Yet  I  regret 
chis,  Frank !  You  do  not  know  how  much  !  But  you  must 
forget  her  !  I  hope  you  will  soon  do  so  !  I  know  you  must  /" 

Frank  shook  his  head  in  despairing  negation.  And  farther 
colloquy  was  arrested  by  the  coming  down  of  Zuleime  equip 
ped  for  her  ride. 

"  Come  here,  my  daughter  !  Now  you  must  be  sure  to  be 
back  by  dinner  time,  do  you  hear  ?" 

"Certainly,  sir!" 

"  Promise  me." 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

"  Upon  your  honor!"  said  the  old  man,  seriously. 

1  Upon  my  honor,  sir,  I  will  return  by  dinner  time !  But 
K-hat  makes  you  so  emphatic  about  it,  dear  father  ?" 

"  A  notion  of  mine,  my  child  !  but  I  have  your  promise  !" 

"  Of  course  you  have,  sir!"  said  Zuleime,  drawing  on  her 
gloves. 

Mr.  Fairfax  was  taking  leave  of  Mrs.  Clifton.  Presently 
he  turned  to  bid  adieu  to  Mr.  Clifton. 

The  old  gentleman  shook  his  hand  warmly,  wishing  liim 
all  the  success  he  desired,  and  affecting  to  laugh  and  jest, 
while  ho  exacted  a  like  promise  from  Fairfax,  namely,  thai 


i30  LOST       AFFECTION. 

he  should  take  his  girl  to  Hardbargain,  and  leave  her  there. 
Lo  return  by  dinner  time. 

Frank  gave  his  word  very  cheerfully.  The  young  couple 
then  mounted  and  rode  away.  The  old  man  watched  them 
from  the  piazza  in  sorrowful  love,  murmuring — 

"  God  bless  them.  I  wish  they  could  be  married.  Pool 
things.  If  they  do  love  each  other  so  much,  or  if  they  think 
they  do,  which  is  quite  as  bad  while  it  lasts — why,  it  is  but 
kind  to  let  them  have  this  last  little  parting  comfort  of  a  ride 
together !  And  it  was  well,  too — "  chuckled  the  old  gentle 
man — "  to  tie  them  up  with  promises,  so  that  they  can't  run 
away,  which  they  might  else  be  tempted  to  do  in  their  part 
ing  hour.  But  they  will  neither  of  them  ever  break  their 
word,  and  I  shall  have  her  back  safe  by  dinner  time.  For 
it  is  utterly  impossible  for  them  to  get  married  without  a 
license,  and  it  is  quite  impracticable  to  get  a  license  this  side 

of  L ,  or  to  ride  to  L betwreen  this  and  noon, 

much  less  to  ride  thither  and  return  here  in  time  for  dinner ! 
Ah  !  I  have  them  there  !    And  yet,  I  am  sorry  for  them,  too 
Poor  things !" 

All  this  time  Carolyn  Clifton  had  sat  like  one  dead,  only 
with  her  eyes  strained  up  the  mountain  bridal-path. 

In  the  meantime,  Frank  and  Zuleime  pursued  their  ride, 
As  soon  as  they  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  a  band  of 
field  laborers,  employed  in  cutting  grass,  and  had  entered  the 
shad  7  mountain  path,  Frank  said — 

"  'Well,  Zuleime,  my  dearest  girl,  I  spoke  to  your  father — " 

—  -"  And  his  answer — I  almost  dread  to  hear  it — yet  I 
know  what  it  was,  too." 

Frank  nodded  his  head,  and  they  rode  on  in  silence  for 
Bomo  minutes,  broken  at  last  by  Frank,  who  suddenly  ex 
claimed — 

a  Zuleime  !   you  bear  this  so  well !" 

"  Frank,  you  know  this  is  no  new  thing  to  me ;  I  havo 
known  it,  and  been  prepared  for  it  all  along!"  replied  the 
girl.,  with  a  look  of  resignation. 

"  Oh,  Zuleime !  is  there  no  way  to  prevent  it  ?" 

"  None  that  I  know  of,  Frank!" 

•"«  Zuleime  !  I  was  in  every  way  his  equal — why,  when  that 
is  the  case,  and  when  I  was  supported  by  your  voice,  too— 
*ony  was  I  rejected  ?" 


LOST     AFFECTION  131 

Tho  mailen  shook  her  head. 

*•  Zuleime,  when  is  this  nideous  marriage  expected  to  coma 
slf  —do  you  know  ?" 

"  Whenever  Major  Cabell  chooses  to  demand  my  hand, 
i  believe  !" 

*<  Really !  Upon  my  word  !  He  is  a  personage  of  tre 
mendous  importance !  Whenever  HE  chooses  to  demand  your 
hand  ! !  Zuleime  !  that  is  passing  strange  !  This  affair 
seems  then  to  rest  entirely  with  Major  Cabell ! ! !" 

"  Yes,  it  does  entirely."  / 

"  Bless  his  Majesty.     Zuleime,  what  hold  has  that  man  on  V  * 
your  father  ?" 

Zuleime  shook  her  black  ringlets  mournfully,  but  did  not     (ty 
reply. 

"  Do  you  know,  my  dear  girl,  that  I  am  impressed  with 
the  idea  that  your  father  does  not  at  heart  wish  to  give  you 
f,o  Major  Cabell,  but  rather  yields  to  a  strange  power  the  \/ 
man  holds  over  him  ?" 

"  At  times  I  have  thought  so,  too.  But  then  my  dear 
father  at  other  times  really  seems  so  set  upon  the  marriage, 
that  the  thought  has  been  driven  out  of  my  head  again  !  I 
do  not  know  what  to  think !  But  what  I  do  know  is,  that  I 
will  never  willingly  do  anything  to  give  my  dear  father 
pain  !" 

"  My  dearest  girl,  do  you  know  that  I  believe,  from  my 
soul,  that  your  marriage  with  Major  Cabell  will  give  your 
lather  more  pain  than  any  other  circumstance  could  ?" 

The  young  girl  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"Zuleime  !  he  told  me  to-day,  that  though  he  had  promis 
ed  you  to  Major  Cabell,  he  would  rather  die  than  see  you  un- 
happy,  or  stand  in  the  way  of  your  perfect  happiness  !" 

"  My  dear  father !  My  dear,  gentle  father  !  My  fond, 
old  father !"  exclaimed  Zuleime,  with  the  bright  tears  rolling 
on  her  damask  cheeks,  like  dew  on  the  red  rose.  "  My  kind, 
generous  father  !  He  shall  never  know  that  I  am  unhappy  ! 
And  neither  shall  I  be  unhappy  when  pleasing  him  !" 

"  My  dear,  excellent  girl !  listen  to  me  !  You  shall  not 
be  unhappy  any  way !  Do  you  suppose,  Zuleime,  that  I  could 
ride  by  your  side  so  cheerfully,  if  I  thought  you  were  going 
to  marry  that  man,  on  whom  your  father  no  more  wishes  to 
bestow  you,  than  he  wishes  to  send  you  to  perdition  1  Lister, 


132  LOST      AFFECTION. 

my  darling  girl !  T\  "hen  your  father  told  me  what  I  have 
repeated  to  you,  he  went  on  to  say,  that  for  certain  family 
reasons,  it  was  incumbent  on  him  to  fulfill  his  promise,  and  to 
bestow  your  hand  upon  Major  Cabell,  unless  some  insurmount 
able,  obstacle  should  interpose  to  arrest  the  union  •  Zuleime ! 
a  flood  of  light  broke  on  me  then !  and  I  felt  and  knew  that 
the  old  man  would  yield  his  darling  daughter  to  the  myste 
rious  power  exercised  over  him  by  Major  Cabell,  rather  than 
bestow  her  with  esteem  and  affection !  Zuleime  !  without 
vanity,  I  think  that  he  loves  me  better,  and  would  prefer  me 
for  a  son-in-law,  if  he  were  free  to  choose.  I  think,  indeed 
I  do,  that  he  would  hail  with  secret  joy  "  an  insurmountable 
obstacle,"  which  would  prevent  the  marriage,  and  not  im 
plicate  him  in  any  manner.  I  think  that  *vas  what  he  meant 
when  he  said  what  he  did.  Still,  I  am  convinced  that  the 
words  slipped  ftom  him  unintentionally.  I  am  certain  he 
did  not  mean  to  give  me  the  hint,  which  nevertheless,  I  take, 
for  he  is  a  man  of  strict  honor,  I  know,  ^nd  would  never 
tamper  with  the  spirit  of  a  promise  any  more  than  he  would 
break  the  words  /" 

"  Oh  !  no,  he  never  would,  indeed  !" 

"  And  again,  my  dearest  girl,  when  I  as^d  him  just  be 
fore  we  came  away,  whether,  at  any  future  time,  under  any 
possible  contingency,  I  might  hope  to  obtain  his  consent  to 
our  union,  he  assured  me  that  I  might  not,  ai»d  earnestly  en 
treated  me  to  forget  you  !  That  further  convinced  me  that 
he  had  no  design  in  giving  me  the  hint  upon  which  I  am 
about  to  act — do  you  hear  me,  dearest  Zuleim*  ?" 

Zuleime  did  not,  or  at  least  did  not  appear  to. 

"  Zuleime,  my  darling,  my  love,"  said  Frank,  dismount 
ing  in  the  path,  and  lifting  her  from  her  saddle,  "  I  am  about 
to  raise  <  an  insurmountable  obstacle'  to  your  carriage  with 
the  Major !" 

Zuleime  turned  deadly  pale  with  surprise  anc*  terror,  and 
glanced  wildly  around,  while  she  fell  upon  his  arm  And  seemed 
about  to  faint. 

"Why,  Zuleime!  Come,  come.  What  is  th«  matter? 
Don't  be  afraid  !  What,  afraid  of  me,  of  Frank,  yo.nr  play- 
mate  ?  Wiry,  look  up  in  my  face  and  see !  Come  lift  up 
your  head '  I  want  to  talk  to  you  !  There !  there  Why. 


LOST     AFFECTION. 

what  arc  you  afraid  of?  I  will  take  no  step  without  your 
consent,  sweet  Zuleime !" 

The  infinite  tenderness  of  his  words,  tones  and  manner, 
reassured  the  frightened  girl,  and  she  raised  hex  face,  now 
suffused  with  blushes.  He  supported  her  with  his  arm 
•around  her  waist,  while  he  pointed  down  into  a  narrow  glen 
:o  the  right,  and  said — 

There !  Look  there,  Zuleime.  Do  you  see  that  little 
stone  house — :there  in  the  bottom  of  the  glen — there  by  the 
spring — but  so  much  like  the  rocks,  near  it,  and  so  deep  in 
the  shade,  as  hardly  to  be  distinguishable  !  Do  you  see  it "?" 

"  Yes,"  breathed  the  maiden,  very  low 

"  Do  you  know  who  lives  there  ?" 

"  No." 

"  A  good  old  man  !  A  saintly  old  man  !  A  poor  Baptist 
missionary  preacher,  who  lives  in  that  hut  quite  alone,  and 
preaches  there  every  Sunday  to  an  humble  congregation, 
composed  of  poor  mountaineers  and  negroes.  He  has  de 
voted  his  life  to  labor  among  the  mountain  people,  and  has 
done  wonders  in  reforming  them !  Is  it  possible  that  you, 
living  in  the  neighborhood,  knew  nothing  of  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  Mr.  Saunders, 
only  I  did  not  know  where  exactly  his  hut  was.  There  are 
so  many  of  them,  you  know!"  said  the  girl,  somewhat  re 
covered,  and  much  interested. 

"  My  dearest  Zuleime !  we  will  go  down  to  that  hut !  <  I 
see  by  the  smoke,  that  so  gracefully  curls,'  that  the  old  man 
is  at  home.  We  will  tell  him  the  whole  story,  as  far  as  we 
know  it,  and  get  him  to  raise  that  required  insurmountable 
obstacle!" 

"Oh!  Frank!"  exclaimed  Zuleime,  shocked,  delighted, 
terrified,  overjoyed. 

"  But,  my  dearest  Zuleime !  my  dearest  love !  I  have 
recorded  an  oath  in  Heaven,  to  save  you  from  that  marriage 
with  C^bfill !  And  I  will  never  leave  you  until  you  are  my 
wife  If  you  refuse  NOW,  I  will  throw  up  my  commission  ib 
the  army.,  and  live  there  in  that  hut  with  the  old  parson, 
Until  you  do  consent!" 

"  But,  ray  father,  Frank !     My  dear  father  !" 

"  Dearoet  girl,  he  will  be  glad  !"  Here  Frank  went  over 
the  whole  story  again,  and  added — "  And  Zuleime,  have  you 


134  LOST      AFFECTION. 

no  love,  nc  pity  left  from  your  father  to  bestow  upon  the 
poor  soldier  who  loves  you  so,  and  who  is  going  out  to  tho 
Indian  frontier,  where  he  may  lose  his  scalp,  or  be  burned 
alive,  or  eaten  raw  within  a  month  by  the  red-skins  ?  Will 
you  refuse  his  last  prayer?'-"  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Over  and  over 
again,  fervently,  earnestly,  iuploringly,  despairingly  he  re 
peated  the  argument  and  the  prayer,  while  he  held  the  maiden 
«  half  willing,  half  afraid."  "  She  who  hesitates  is  lost,"  it 
is  said. 

Zulcime  hesitated  a  long  time,  and,  consequently,  was  lost 
to  all  eternity.  What  could  she  oppose,  indeed,  to  what 
geemed  so  right  and  reasonable?  With  a  deep  sigh  she 
yielded  at  last.  There  was  no  path  that  way  down-irito  the 
glen,  and  the  descent  was  deep  and  precipitous,  and  over 
grown  with  stunted  cedar,  pine  and  thorn  bushes.  So, 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  began  to  clamber  down,  by  foot-holds  of 
jagged  rocks,  and  fist-holds  of  thorn  bushes,  to  the  great 
risk  of  wounded  hands  and  torn  pants  and  petticoats.  And 
fjo  it  was  in  rather  a  disordered  state  of  attire,  as  well  as  in 
an  excited  state  of  mind,  that  they  at  last  arrived  before  the 
door  of  Father  Lawrence's  cell,  and  rapped.  While  they 
waited  for  the  old  man  to  appear,  Frank,  very  much  to  the 
\Burprise  of  Zuleime,  drew  from  his  vest  pocket  a  license — a 

regular  bona  fide  license,  signed  by  the  cleik  of  R • 

county,  and  sealed  with  the  county  seal.  Resting  his  foot 
upon  the  door-step,  he  took  off  his  hat,  turned  it  down  on  his 
knee,  laid  the  license  upon  its  top,  and  drawing  from  his 
other  pocket  a  travelling  pen  and  ink  case,  proceeded  to 
write  the  names  of  Francis  Rutland  Fairfax  and  Zuloime 
Dovilliers  Clifton  in  the  blank  spaces. 

"  You  look  surprised,  my  dearest  girl,"  said  he,  as  he  ro- 
turned  the  pen  and  ink  case  to  his  pocket.  "  You  wonder 
how  I  came  by  this  license  ?  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  it  by 
a  stroke  of  the  rarest  good  fortune.  You  know,  being 
groomsman,  I  was  entrusted  with  the  duty  of  riding  to 

\t ,  and  procuring  the  marriage  license  for  Archer  and 

your  sister.  Well !  when  I  arrived  at  the  clerk's  office,  by 
the  strangest  caprice  of  memory,  I  entirely  forgot  Miss 
Olifton's  middle  name;  so  I  got  the  clerk  to  give  me  one 
license  filled  out  with  the  names  of  Carolyn  Clifton  and 
Archer  Clifton,  and  then  knowing  how  extremely  punctiliou* 


LOST     AFFECTION.  135 

fou  all  are  here,' in  this  county,  I  procured  another  icense 
regularly  signed  and  sealed,  but  leaving  blank  spaces  for  the 
proper  names  of  the  parties!  There,  darling!  that  is  the 
mannef  in  which  I  came  by  it !  Now,  this  blank  one  I  fill 
up  with  our  names,  which  I  really  think  look  quite  as  prettj 
as  the  others  would !  As  for  Clifton  and  your  sister,  if  thc»y 
want  a  license,  they  will  have  to  put  up  with  the  first,  which  I 
will  hand  to  Archer  as  soon  as  we  get  to  Hardbargain.  Bless 
my  soul !  what  has  become  of  that  old  man '?"  he  exclaimed, 
rapping  loudly,  then  trying  the  door  and  pushing  it  open. 
The  house  was  empty.  Frank  looked  dismally  disappointed, 
but  Zuleime  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve,  and  whispered,  hur 
riedly — 

"  Here  he  comes — behind  you  !" 

And  he  turned  to  see  the  old  preacher  coming  from  the 
spring,  bending  under  the  light  weight  of  a  small  pail  of 
water.  Frank  immediately  went  to  him,  greeted  him  respect 
fully,  and  took  from  his  hand  the  pail,  and  carrying  it, 
walked  by  his  side,  till  they  reached  the  house.  Lieutenant 
Fairfax  then  introduced  himself  by  name  and  station,  and 
presented  Miss  Zuleime  Clifton.  The  old  man  bowed  and 
offered  his  hand,  with  a  courtly  grace,  in  strange  contrast  to 
his  rude  garb  and  rough  habitation.  He  invited  them  to 
come  in  and  sit  down.  And  when  they  had  entered,  and 
Zuleime  was  seated,  Frank  took  the  old  man  aside,  commu 
nicated  the  object  of  their  call,  and  produced  his  license. 
The  old  man  glanced  from  the  earnest  countenance  of  Frank 
to  the  blushing,  downcast  face  of  Zuleime,  shook  his  bald 
head,  and  looked  very  grave. 

Frank  drew  him  off  to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  little  h.ut, 
made  him  sit  down  on  the  foot  of  his  bed,  seated  himself  by 
his  side,  and  in  a  fervid,  earnest,  eloquent  manner,  told  him 
their  little  story. 

Many  times  the  old  man  shook  his  thin,  gray  locks.  They 
were  not  good  things — these  secret  marriaf.es — they  never 
prospered.  Marriage  should  be  open  as  day — with  the 
blessing  of  God — with  the  blessing  of  parents — with  the 
sympathy  of  friends — with  the  good  wishes  of  acquaintances 
to  hallow  and  prosper  the  union. 

"  Oh  :"  said  Frank,  but  this  was  an  extraordinary  occa 
sion,  the  father  was  really  at  heart  not  opposed  to  this  uiaj> 


136  LOST      AFFECTION. 

riage,  but  circumstances  compelled  him  to  withhold  his  open 
consent — he  himself,  (Frank,)  was  about  to  depart  on  a  long 
journey,  and  merely  wished  to  secure  his  bride  against  a 
forced  marriage  of  convenience  during  his  absence.  In  short, 
Frank  recommenced  the  argument,  and  told  it  all  over  fi  jcj 
beginning  to  end. 

Still  the  old  man  shook  his  bald  head  and  demurred. 

Frank  began  the  story  over  again,  recited  the  whole  of  ifv 
with  many  additions  and  improvements. 

To  no  purpose — the  old  man  was  obdurate.  Frank,  then 
half  angrily,  arose  and  said — 

"  Come  Zuleime !  We  must  go  on  to  the  frontier  together, 
and  find  somebody  to  marry  us  on  the  route,  and  let  Mr. 
Saunders  here  be  responsible  for  all  trouble  that  may  ensue, 
since  with  the  license  before  him,  he  refuses  to  unite  us." 
At  this,  Zuleime  burst  into  tears  and  wept  heartily. 

The  old  preacher  dropped  his  head  upon  his  breast  in  trou 
bled  thought  for  some  moments,  and,  whether  the  arguments 
of  Frank  had  after  all  produced  some  effect,  or  wnether  he 
feared  to  encounter  the  responsibility  of  sending  this  wild 
young  couple  on  their  way  unmarried,  or  whether  he  was 
moved  to  pity  by  the  tears  of  Zuleime,  or  whether,  as  is 
more  probable,  all  these  considerations  actuated  him,  I  know 
not ;  but  he  slowly  rose  to  his  feet,  uncovered  his  head,  and 
lifted  up  his  eyes  in  silent  prayer  awhile,  then  bade  the 
young  pair  stand  up,  for  that  he  would  marry  them. 

Frank  clasped  the  hand  of  Zuleime,  and  led  her  forward. 
And  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  more,  by  the  magic  of  a  few 
Words,  the  youth  and  maiden  were  man  and  wife.  And  while 
Mrs.  Fairfax,  with  trembling  white  fingers,  was  tying  her 
hat,  Mr.  Fairfax  would  have  emptied  the  whole  contents  of 
his  purse  in  the  minister's  hands, — but,  though  that  money 
might  have  supplied  the  poor  old  preacher  with  many  neces 
saries  for  which  he  really  suffered,  and  made  him  very  com 
fortable  for  a  long  time,  yet  he  turned  away  his  head,  and 
put  it  away  from  him,  saying — 

"  No,  young  man,  I  cannot  take  your  gold  ;  I  may  have 
erred  in  what  I  have  done,  but  I  did  not  do  it  for  monev." 

"  But  you  always  take  a  fee,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  From  others  I  do — not  from  you.  It  would  not  b« 
blessed." 


LOST     AFFECTION.  137 

The  fDoyish  brow  of  Frank  clouded  and  darkened,  but  it 
alcared  again  instantly  as  he  turned  towards  his  bride. 

They  were  about  to  bid  the  old  minister  adieu,  when  he 
took  a  hand  of  each,  and  joining  them  again,  held  them  io 
his  own,  while  he  said — 

"  Children,  if  this  thoughtless  act  bring  you  into  much 
trouble,  in  the  long,  weary  years  of  trial  and  suffering  that 
may  result  from  it,  reproach  me  for  my  share  in  the  rash 
deed  as  much  as  you  please,  but, — "  he  paused  and  looked 
solemnly  from  ono  to  the  other, — "  never,  as  you  value  love, 
and  fidelity,  and  peace, — nover,  as  you  value  the  favor  of 
Heaven,  never  reproach  each  other  with  it !  So  may  God 
forgive,  and  bless.,  and  prosper  you!  Good-bye !" 

The  young  bride  and  groom  had  bowed  their  heads  during 
this  benediction,  and  at  its  close  responded  with  a  silent, 
heartfelt  amen.  They  then  left  the  cabin. 

If  the  minister  of  God  grievously  erred  in  performing  this 
secret  marriage  ceremony,  he  was  soon  called  to  account  for  u^' 
it ;  the  old  man  died  that  night. 

As  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fairfax  left  the  cabin,  they  perceived 
Kate  Kavanagh,  on  her  litUe  rough-coated  mountain  pony, 
coming  straight  down  into  the  glen — her  sure-footed  little 
animal  treading  with  perfect  security  the  precipitous  descent 
down  which  they  had  been  obliged  to  clamber.  Kate  was 
looking  very  pale  and  care-worn,  so  that  her  ponderous 
Abutting  forehead,  in  its  pallor,  reminded  Frank  of  a  bare- 
bleached  cliff.  And,  indeed,  he  thought  that  Kate's  face 
looked  more  like  that  of  an  anxious  politician,  with  the  af 
fairs  of  a  nation  on  his  shoulders,  than  of  a  grieved  girl. 
But  this  was  the  fault  of  her  marked  features.  But  little 
time  or  thought  had  Mr.  Fairfax  to  bestow  upon  the  moun 
tain-girl  ;  so  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  her,  he  turned  in 
another  direction,  to  avoid  being  recognized,  saying — 

"  By  all  that's  fatal,  my  dearest  love,  we  were  near  beino 
detected  !  And  by  all  that's  fortunate,  we  have  escaped  ! 
Come,  this  way  ,  we  will  take  a  stroll  down  the  glen  and 
into  the  forest  for  a  little  while,  until  this  girl  is  clear  of  the 
way." 

'•'  Oh,  but  it  will  delay  us  so  much,  I  shall  not  have  time 
to  go  to  Hardbargain,  and  assist  Aunt  Clifton,  and  get  back 
koine  to  dinner,  as  I  promised !" 


138  LOST      AFFECTION. 

«  My  dear!"  said  Frank,  reproachfully,  "  do  you  grudge 
me  these  last  few  hours  of  your  society,  when  we  are  about 
to  be  separated  so  far  and  so  long?  Besides,  you  know  you 
are  my  own  dear  wife  now.  Will  you  refuse  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot !     But,  oh,  let  me  return  to  father— 
my  dear,  fond,  confiding  father, — as   soon  as  I  promised ! 
Let  me  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  his  ear,  if  I  have  broken 
it  to  his  hope!"  cried  Zuleime,  bursting  into  a  passion  of 
tears. 

Safe  tears,  and  unobserved  but  by  him  who  kissed  them 
away,  for  already  they  had  entered  the  thicket,  and  were 
veiled  from  the  sight  of  Kate  Kavanagh,  who  now  dis 
mounted  before  the  door  of  the  hut,  and  taking  from  the 
horns  of  the  saddle  a  basket  and  a  bundle,  entered  the  poor 
preacher's  humble  habitation.  We  will  turn  from  the  erring 
pair  and  enter  with  her.  None  but  God  knew  how  much  dis 
interested  good  the  poor  mountain-girl  did  in  this  world. 
Even  the  minister,  who  loved  and  respected  her,  knew  little 
beyond  the  good  she  did  for  him.  He  knew  that  she  knit 
new  stockings  and  darned  old  ones  for  him — that  she  took 
his  scanty  clothing  every  week,  and  mended,  and  washed, 
and  ironed  it  for  him — and  that  when  she  brought  it  back, 
she  would  always  bring  him  butter,  cream  and  cheese  of  her 
own  making,  and  a  fresh  loaf  of  rising  bread  of  her  own 
baking,  and  often  some  little  rural  luxury  besides,  as  a  jar 
of  honey  or  a  piece  of  venison.  And  that  she  would  stay 
and  clean  up  his  house  before  she  left.  He  knew  that  she 
was  Lis  good  spirit. 

As  Kate  entered  the  room,  the  old  man  came  and  met  her, 
and  took  the  basket  and  the  bundle  from  her  hands  and  set 
them  down,  and  set  a  chair  for  her,  and  made  her  sit  down 
in  it,  while  he  said — 

"  My  dear  child  !  my  excellent  child,  you  do  too  much  for 
me  !  You  hurt  yourself,  Catherine,  and  make  me  too  deeply 
your  debtor !" 

Kate  waved  her  hand  in  that  quick,  short  way  peculiar  to 
ncrself,  silently  beseeching  him  to  stop. 

"  But  it  is  the  truth,  Catherine,  my  child!  I  shr.ll  never 
be  able  to  repay  you  !" 

<*  Oh,  sir  !  you  have  reversed  the  case !  It  is  7  who  an: 
your  debtor !  If  I  were  not  particularly  your  debtor  for  alj 


LOST     AFFECTION.  139 

the  education  -mental,  and  moral,  and  religions,  that  I  have 
ever  received,  up  to  the  time  of  my  coming  to  Hardbargain — 
still  I  should  be  generally  your  debtor,  as  youth  is  the  gene 
ral  debtor  of  age — owing  it  all  the  service  it  can  give." 
Then,  to  change  the  subject,  the  girl  laid  off  her  straw  hat, 
drew  off  her  sheep-skin  home-made  mittens,  and  arose  and  un 
covered  her  basket,  saying — "Instead  of  a  loaf  of  rising  bread 
Mr.  Saunders,  I  have  brought  you  some  fresh  biscuits ;  J 
thought  they  might  be  an  agreeable  change.  There  is  also 
a  fresh  print  of  butter,  and  a  bottle  of  cream,  and  a  beef's 
tongue,  boiled — I  thought  the  last  would  give  you  an  appe 
tite — I  think  you  have  not  had  a  good  appetite,  lately !" 
And  without  more  ado  Catherine  put  the  things  away  in  the 
cupboard,  setting  the  bottle  of  cream  in  a  bowl  of  water,  to 
keep  cool,  and  wishing  to  herself  that  she  had  a  lump  of  ice 
to  put  on  the  old  man's  print  of  butter.  Next,  she  unrolled 
the  bundle,  took  the  old  man's  nicely  washed  and  mended 
clothes,  and  put  them  neatly  away  in  the  chest,  of  drawers. 
Then  she  set  the  empty  basket  aside,  rolled  up  her  sleeves, 
stooped  down  upon  the  hearth,  and  began  to  make  the  fire, 
saying — "  You  know  I  have  come  to  diiie  with  you  to-day, 
Mr.  Saunders!"- 

"  I  know  you  have  come  to  bring  me  many  comforts, 
and  to  cook  my  dinner,  and  clean  up  my  house,  and 
make  me  very  comfortable,  you  good  girl,  my  dear  little 
Brownie !" 

Catherine  moved  about,  in  her  quick  and  quiet  way- 
filled  and  put  on  the  kettle — for  the  old  man  would  always 
have  his  cup  of  tea — and  set  the  table,  placing  all  the  little 
rarities  she  had  brought  upon  it.  When  all  was  ready,  and 
they  sat  down,  the  old  man  found  leisure  to  observe  that 
Kate  ate  nothing,  and  looked  pale  and  thoughtful. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  Kate  1 — you  who  are  always 
serif  us,  are  now  positively  sorrowful !  What  is  it  ?" 

Kate,  who  was  truth  itself  whenever  she  spoke,  chose  for 
that  reason  to  give  no  answer. 

The  old  man  looked  more  and  more  disturbed,  and  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork,  said — 

"  Nay,  but  Catherine,  my  dear  child,  there  is  something 
the  matter !  I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  on  your  confidence, 
but  if  you  have  any  trouble  that  you  think  I  may  possibly 


140  LOST      AFFECTION. 

be  able  to  soothe — confide  in  me,  as  if  I  were  your  own 
father,  my  child." 

"  Dear  Mr.  Saunders,  don't  trouble  your  good  heart  about 
my  cloudy  face.  Sure  and  hasn't  a  poor  girl  the  same  right 
to  her  smoke  that  a  wealthy  young  lady  has  to  her  vapors7" 
Baid  Kate,  smiling. 

The  old  minister  did  not  press  his  question,  but  resumed  his 
knife  and  fork  with  a  look  of  mortification  that  worried  Cath 
erine,  so  that  she  said — 

"  I  will  tell  you,  then,  what  troubles  me.  My  dearest, 
best  friend  and  patron,  Captain  Clifton,  has  bidden  me  good- 
.  bye,  and  departed  for  the  frontier  !  That  is  bad — oh,  yes  ! 
— very  bad.  But  that  is  not  the  worst.  He  has  gone  away 
very  unhappy.  I  might  as  well  tell  you  what  everybody 
will  soon  know  : — his  marriage  is  broken  off !  He  has  gone 
away  in  anger  with  his  promised  bride.  He  has  gone  away 
so  wretched !  Mr.  Saunders,  when  I  saw  him  last  night, 
looking  so  pale,  and  stern,  and  proud — and  knew  the  haugh 
tiness  and  the  anguish  of  his  heart,  I  thought  I  could  have 
died  to  have  restored  peace  and  joy  between  him  and  her  he 
loved  so  strongly." 

"  Mercif  ul  Heaven  ! — those  Cliftons  !     This  is  another  in 
stance  of  their  fatal  subjection  to  passion !     Do  you  know, 
my  dear  child,  what  caused  this  quarrel  1" 
«        "I  know  nothing  but  this — the  marriage  is  broken  off  for 
4      the  present !     I  do  not  know  wherefore." 

,"  "  Some  jealous   suspicion  of   one   party   or   the    other  ! 
I   Thosf.  Cliftons  all  have  Spanish  blood  in  them,  and  the  Span- 
>    I  ish  character  is  uppermost  in  their  nature.     They  are  all 
l^hau'jhty,  reserved,  jealous,  suspicious." 

c*  Ah,  but  they  are  full  of  courage,  magnanimity  and  be 
nevolence,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Archer  Clifton  is  of  a  very  jealous  and  suspicious  nature 
--was  his  betrothed  inclined  to  coquetry?" 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know,  sir,  but  the  misunderstanding  did 
not  originate  in  any  charge  against  Miss  Clifton.  It  was 
something  of  which  Miss  Clifton  accused  him,  but  of  what,  I 
do  not  know  ! — he  did  not  say.  My  dear  Mr.  Saunders,  I 
told  you  what  troubled  me,  to  satisfy  your  kind  heart,  and 
fcllay  your  benevolent  anxiety  on  my  account.  And  now 
please  forgive  me,  for  beseeching  you  not  to  question  mf 


LOST     AFFECTION.  141 

ft&nner  upon  the  subject.  They — the  parties,  I  mean — are 
far  removed  above  my  sphere  of  thought  and  action — and  tho 
investigation  of  their  motives  of  action,  by  me,  seems  to  in 
volve  a  certain  indelicacy — I  fear  even  impertinence  of  inter 
ference/"'  said  Catherin-  .  gfii'.'j. 

"  Yet,  far  above  your  sphere  of  thought  and  action  as  you 
say  they  are,  they  are  not — at  least  one  of  them  is  not- 
above  your  sphere  of  sympathy  and  emotion.  His  sorrow 
affects  you  with  sorrow!" 

The  blood  rushed  tc  Kate's  brow,  and  she  remained  silent. 

The  old  man  and  the  maiden  soon  after  arose  from  the 
table.  She  washed  up  the  dishes,  tidied  up  the  house,  and 
collected  the  poor  preacher's  soiled  and  broken  clothes,  and 
tied  them  in  a  bundle  to  take  away  with  her  to  wash  and 
mend.  Then  she  tied  on  her  hat,  and  took  leave  of  him ; 
the  old  man  calling  her  back,  again  and  again,  with  vague, 
prophetic  meaning,  to  repeat  over  arid  over — "  God  bless  you. 
my  child!  God  bless  you  !"  It  was  his  dying  benediction. 

A  poor  mountaineer,  that  called  early  the  next  morning 
to  get  the  poor  minister  to  the  poor  to  come  and  bury  hk 
wife — found  the  old  man  dead. 


142  WOMAN'S     p  R  r  D  & 

CHAPTEH  IS. 

WOMAN'S  PRIDE. 

The  bird  when  she  pinelh  may  hush  her  sonjr, 
Till  the  hour  when  hor  heart  shall  again  be  strong; 
But  thou — canst  thou  turn  in  thy  woe  aside, 
And  weep  midst  thy  sisters  ?    No,  not  for  pride. 

May  the  fiery  word  from  thy  lip  find  way, 

When  the  thoughts  burning  "in  thee  shall'spring  to-day  T 

May  the  grief  that  sits  in  thy  weary  breast, 

Look  forth  from  thine  aspect,  the  re'vel's  guest  ? 

No  !  with  the  shaft  in  thy  bosom  born, 

Thou  must  hide  the  wound  in  thy  fear  of  scorn  ! 

Thou  must  fold  thy  mantle,  that  none  may  see, 

And  mask  thee  with  laughter,  and  say  thou  art  free! 

MRS.  HEMANS 

ALL  the  forenoon,  Carolyn  Clifton  sat  in  the  same  place  and 
in  the  same  attitude  in  which  we  left  her,  affecting  to  read, 
but  really  watching  the  mountain-path  with  heart-sickening 
anxiety.  Every  distant  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  that  struck 
upon  her  ear,  sent  an  electric  shock  to  her  heart,  causing  her 
to  start  violently,  tremble,  and  turn  deadly  sick  and  faint, 
with  accelerated  hope  and  fear,  until  its  nearer  approach  re 
vealed  some  neighbor  going  on  his  way,  or  some  negro  com 
ing  from  the  mill  or  the  village,  to  her  despairing  sight. 
Even  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels,  as  they  occasionally  rolled 
by,  made  her  heart  pause  in  its  pulsations  until  it  passed,  an4 
proved  to  be  some  family  going  on  a  visit  or  a  shopping  er 
rand. — For  still  she  hoped  that  if  he  did  not  come  down  the 
mountain-path  on  horseback,  he  might  come  round  the  road 
with  his  mother  in  her  carriage.  He  came  not.  And  oh, 
the  wedding  day  was  almost  over !  No  one  saw  the  strife  of 
hope  and  fear,  like  the  struggle  of  life  and  death,  going  on 
silently  in  her  bosom.  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  spent  the  whole 
forenoon  in  her  own  apartment,  professing  to  be  engaged 
with  many  elegant  preparations  for  the  evening  ;  but  really 
ful]  of  triumph  for  the  success  of  her  wicked  scheming,  unc* 


WOMAN'S    PRIDE.  143 

anxiety  and  wonder  for  the  events  of  the  evening,  ana  dark 
regret  also  for  the  absence  of  him  who,  if  lost  to  Carolyn 
forever,  was  lost  to  herself  for  a  time  at  least.  With  all 
these  passions  and  emotions  striving  in  her  bosom,  she  dared 
not  show  herself,  lest  her  conscious  heart  and  conscious  faco 
should  betray  her — for  Georgia  was  yet  young  in  wickedness. 

The  Misses  Cabell  were  in  their  own  chamber,  putting  a 
few  finishing  touches  to  their  dresses  for  the  evening,  for 
they,  with  Zuleime,  were  to  be  the  bridesmaids. 

Zuleime  herself  had  not  yet  returned,  although  it  was  near 
noon. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  had  been  out,  as  was  his  daily  habit  of  a 
forenoon,  riding  around  his  plantation. 

He  came  in  to-day  a  little  earlier  than  usual,  and  finding 
his  daughter  exactly  where  he  left  her,  but  looking  still  more 
pale,  haggard  and  anxious  than  in  the  morning,  he  sat  down 
by  her  side,  put  his  arm  tenderly  around  her  waist,  and 
gazed  lovingly  into  her  whitened  and  sharpened  countenance, 
before  he  said  interrogatively — 

"  Not  come  yet,  Carolyn  ]" 

"  No,  sir !"  answered  the  young  lady  rising  and  putting 
off  her  father's  caressing  arm,  and  her  own  humiliating  des 
pondency,  with  a  proud  and  queenly  air. 

"  Well !"  said  the  old  man,  with  sudden  energy, "  I  win 
certainly  now  ride  up  to  Hardbargain  and  know  the  reason. 
DANDY  ! — my  horse,  there !  Bring  him  back ! — I've  not 
done  with  him!" 

"  Father !"  said  Carolyn,  seizing  his  hand,  and  detaining 
him,  while  she  raised  her  head  and  looked  and  spoke  in  a 
manner  that  reminded  him  more  strongly  than  ever  of  her 
arrogant  mother,  "  Father,  no,  you  will  not  go !  No,  no, 
father,  if  you  have  any  love  for  me,  any  respect  for  the 
memory  of  my  dead  nether,  do  not  subject  her  daughter  and 
yours  to  such  a  mortifi  nation  !  No,  father,  if  he  never  comes, 
never  go  after  him  !" 

"  You're  a  fool,  girl !"  cried  the  old  man,  breaking  away 
from  her,  "  a  palpable  fool ! — You  were  a  fool  for  quarreling 
with  him  and  sending  him  away,  and  now  you  are  a  greater 
fool  for  persisting  in  the  quarrel.  <  Mortification,'  indeed ! 
Who'll  be  the  most  mortified  this  evening,  I  wonder,  *  if  he 
never  conies  ?'  What  the  deuce  are  we  to  say  to  the  people 


144  WOMAN'S    PRIDE. 

«r no  will  curne  here  this  evening  to  see  you  married  ?  Tell 
ine  that  1" 

Before  she  could  say  another  word,  a  large  family  carriage 
r<  lied  down  the  road,  and  turned  and  entered  the  la\vn> 

Carolyn  sank  back  in  her  seat,  nearly  swooning  with  the 
swift  hope  and  fear  that  strove  almost  to  agony  as  she  gazed. 

It  looked  so  like  Mrs.  Clifton's  carriage. 

It  was  not,  however.  It  contained  the  very  earliest  of  the 
wedding  guests,  who,  coming  from  a  distance  of  thirty  miles, 
had  set  out  early  enough  to  arrive  in  time  to  secure  a  whole 
afternoon's  rest  and  refreshment  before  dressing  for  the 
evening.  This  was  customary  with  those  coming  from  afar. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  went  down  the  steps,  to  receive  his  guests. 

Carolyn  arose  and  withdrew  into  the  house,  fortunately 
before  she  had  been  recognized  by  the  visitors ;  for  it  would 
have  been  shockingly  out  of  all  etiquette  for  a  bride  to  be 
visible  on  her  wedding-day  before  the  wedding-hour. 

When  Mr.  Clifton  had  ushered  his  guests  into  the  drawing- 
room,  he  returned  to  the  piazza  to  give  some  directions  con 
cerning  the  stabling  of  the  horses,  for  where  so  many  animals 
were  expected  to  be  provided  for,  it  required  some  extra 
thought  and  care  in  their  bestowal.  While  still  giving  his 
orders,  he  saw  his  younger  daughter  riding  slowly  up  to  the 
house.  Pleased  to  see  her  return  in  safety,  in  spite  of  his 
3vil  forebodings  of  the  morning,  and  thinking  besides  that 
she  could  give  him  some  news  of  the  laggard  bridegroom,  he 
hastened  to  meet  her  and  lift  her  from  the  saddle,  with  a 
joyous — 

"  Well,  my  darling  !  well,  my  damask  rose-bud  !  Back 
in  time,  according  to  promise,  eh  V9 

But  at  the  sight  of  her  father,  the  girl's  face  flushed  and 
paled  so  swiftly,  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  so  rapidly,  her 
whole  frame  was  so  agitated,  her  manner  so  confused,  that 
the  old  man  was  seized  with  alarm  and  exclaimed,  hur 
riedly — 

11  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  my  dearest  child,  what  is  the 
matter  v9 

But  Zuleime,  incapable  of  reply,  looked  as  if  she  would 
sink  into  the  ground. 

Mr.  Clifton's  first  definite  thought  was  that  some  accident 
*>r  catastrophe  had  befallen  the  bridegroom. 


WOMAN'S    PRIDE.  145 

"  Good  Heaven,  Zuleime,  what  has  happened  ?  Where  is 
Archer  Clifton?  Speak — has  he  come  to  any  harm?'" 

Much  relieved  that  her  father's  suspicions  had  fallen  out 
of  the  true  track — yet  still  considerably  shaken,  Zuleime  re 
plied,  in  a  faltering  voice,  that  Captain  Clifton  had  received 
orders,  and  had  departed  that  morning  with  Lieutenant 
Fairfax  for  Winchester,  where  their  regiment  was  quartered, 
ind  that  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  desired  to  see  Mr. 
Clifton  as  soon  as  possible.  Without  another  word — totally 
unsuspicious  that  Mrs.  Fairfax  stood  before  him — the  old 
man  threw  himself  on  horseback,  and  rode  furiously  toward 
Hardbargain. 

Mrs.  Frank  Fairfax,  our  runaway  daughter,  and  widowed 
bride,  stole  to  her  own  little  room  to  weep  in  secret,  a  littlo 
over  her  fault,  but  a  great  deal  over  the  absence  of  and  the 
danger  about  to  befall  her  husband. 

Dinner  was  served  without  Mr.  Clifton,  Miss  Clifton, 
Zuleime,  and  the  Misses  Cabell.  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  alone 
entertained  the  newly  arrived  company.  This  did  not  occa 
sion  remark.  Mr.  Clifton  was  known  to  be  absent,  and  it 
was  customary,  as  I  said  before,  for  the  bride  and  her 
attendants  to  be  invisible. 

In  the  meantime,  Carolyn  Clifton  sat  in  her  chamber — 
pride,  love,  regret,  anger,  hope,  fear — all  good  and  evil  pas 
sions  striving  in  her  soul,  or  in  turn  holding  the  mastery  over 
it.  It  was  drawing  near  the  hour  when  she  should  commence 
her  bridal  toilet,  if  indeed  any  bridal  array  was  to  be  assumed 
that  evening.  Amidst  all  her  keen  anxiety,  she  dreaded  lest 
some  one  should  come  in  and  tell  her  it  was  time  to  dress. 
What  should  her  proud  heart  permit  her  to  explain  to  such 
a  one.  She  need  not  have  feared  interruption,  however. 

The  Misses  Cabell,  her  bridesmaids,  it  is  true,  sat  together 
in  their  chamber  very  impatiently  awaiting  a  message  from 
the  bride — very  impatiently,  indeed,  for  after  her  ceremonious 
dressing,  they  had  their  own  very  elaborate  toilet  to  make. 
But  they  would  not  enter  her  dressing-room  unsummoned, 
or  at  least  until  they  should  receive  from  some  member  of  the 
family  a  suggestion  that  it  was  now  proper  to  do  so.  And 
no  one  thought  or  remembered  to  give  them  the  hint. 

Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton — self-convicted  of  being  the  origina 
tor  of  all  the  great  trouble  that  had  befallen,  and  the  greater 


146  WOMAN'S     PRIDE. 

that  was  about  to  befall  the  bouse — kept  herself  as  much  as 
Dossible  aloof. 

And  Zuleime  was  as  yet  too  deeply  absorbed  in  the  con 
templation  of  her  own  recent  bridehood,  and  the  sorrow  of 
her  widowhood,  to  think  of  anything  else. 

Meanwhile  old  Mr.  Clifton  had  ridden  as  for  life  up  to 
Ilardbargain,  thrown  himself  from  his  horse,  flung  the  bridle 
upon  his  neck  and  let  him  go  loose,  while  he  himself  rushed 
up  the  stairs  and  into  the  hall,  and  without  the  ceremony  of 
a  rap,  burst  into  the  quiet  presence  of  Mrs.  Clifton  as  she 
sat  sewing  in  her  shady  parlor.  She  arose  calmly  to  receive 
him ;  and  the  very  quietness  of  the  lady  threw  the  excited 
old  gentleman  off  his  guard,  and  out  of  his  politeness,  and 
into  a  rage. 

"Well,  madam!"  he  exclaimed,  throwing  his  hat  down 
with  a  thump  into  a  cbair,  and  tramping  up  and  down  the 
floor.  "  Here's  a  pretty  state  of  affairs  !" 

'•  Mr.  Clifton,  you  are  excited." 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  AM  excited  !"  interrupted  the  old  man — 
••  very  much  excited,  madam  !  Very  much  excited,  indeed, 
madam  !  Where  is  Archer  Clifton  ?  tell  me  that !" 

"  Mr.  Clifton,  sit  down  and  compose  yourself!" 

"Compose  myself!  Compose  myself  with  a  prospect  of 
three  hundred  people  pouring  into  my  house  to-night,  each 
one  of  them  agape  to  see  a  wedding,  and  to  have  to  tell  them 
there  will  be  no  wedding !" 

"  Mr.  Clifton,  you  can't  regret  this  circumstance  more 
than  I  do !" 

"  I  don't  regret  it  at  all,  ma'am  !  I  rejoice  at  it,  ma'am ! 
I  congratulate  myself  and  my  daughter,  ma'am  !  But  I'll 
have  satisfaction,  ma'am!  I'll  have  satisfaction,  ma'am1" 
said  the  old  man,  wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  red  face. 

"  Satisfaction  for  what  you  rejoice  at,  Mr.  Clifton  ?'•  in 
quired  the  lady,  smiling  at  his  unreasonable  anger  with  aer- 
Belf. 

"  I'll— yes— I'll  have  satisfaction,  ma'am  !" 

"  From  whom  ?  From  me  ?  Do  you  intend  to  call  me 
out  as  my  son's  representative  ?  Do  you  wish  to  compel  me 
to  nght  a  duel ;  or  to  make  an  apology- — which  ?-"  inquired 
the  lady,  coolly. 

"  Dem  it,  mem,  I'll — I'll  have  satisfaction  .'-"  exclaimed 


WOMAN'S    PKIDE.  147 

the  old  man,  growing  shorter  and  shorter  in  his  syllables. 
"I'll— I'll  write  to  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment !  I'll— I'll 
make  the  matter  known  to  the  Major  General  of  the  Army ! 
I'll — yes,  dem-me  !  I'll  go  to  Washington  and  tell  the  Presi 
dent  !  I'll  have  that  young  rascal  cashiered,  and  broken  and 
dismissed  from  the  service  !" 

"  What !  all  three !  Why,  that  is  passing  cruel !  Quite 
as  bad  as  being  killed  and  murdered,  and  mortally  wounded !" 
said  the  lady,  smiling  at  his  insane  vehemence. 

"  Dem  it,  mem  !  don't  take  my  words  up  !"  he  exclaimed, 
stamping  up  and  down  the  floor,  and  then  breaking  out  into 
vituperative  abuse  of  Archer  Clifton,  all  addressed  to  Mrs. 
Clifton,  who,  though  becoming  very  much  agitated,  now  pre 
served  a  dignified  silence. 

"  Mr.  Clifton  forgets  that  he  is  a  man,  and  that  he  speaks) 
to  a  woman !"  said  a  stern,  but  low-toned  voice. 

And  the  old  gentleman  turned  to  see  Kate  Kavanagl^ 
'  severe  in  youthful  beauty,"  standing  within  the  door  ;  yes, 
in  beauty,  for  her  slight  figure  was  drawn  gracefully  up — her 
bosom  heaving,  her  fine  head  erected,  her  cheeks  crimson, 
and  her  eyes  intensely  brilliant  with  the  just  indignation  that 
moved  her  soul,  as  she  walked  straight  up  to  Mrs.  Clifton,  , 
and  said — 

"  Dearest  lady,  allow  me — do  allow  me  to  attend  you  to  your  \ 
own  room,  and  be  your  substitute  here,  in  waiting  upon  Mr.  / 
Clifton." 

•'  No,  Kate — no,  my  dear  girl.  I  have  to  talk  rationally 
to  the  man  as  soon  as  he  comes  to  his  senses,"  replied  the  lady. 

"  Who  is  that  girl  ]"  inquired  the  old  gentleman,  not  re 
cognizing  Kate  under  the  new  aspect — or  affecting  not  to  do 
so.  "  Who  is  that  girl,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?"  he  repeated,  while 
the  lady  gazed  fondly  on  her  protege. 

tc  Miss  Kavanagh ;  my  son's  ward,  and  my  own  adopted 
daughtei ,^~replie~^^ljFsV~Cnfton7~witHout  withdrawing  her 
fond  gaze  from  the  face  of  Kate,  who  was  blushing  under  it 

"  Miss  KavanagL,  your  son's  ward,  and  your  own  adopted 
daughter  !  A  promising  relationship  all  around,  that  is — up 
— on— my — word — it — is  !"  said  Mr.  Clifton,  very  deliber 
ately.  "  However,"  he  added,  "  she  has  brought  me  to  re 
flection,  for  which  I  thank  her.  And  Mrs.  Clifton,  I  feel 
•crry  and  mortified  that  I  have  been  betrayed  into  some  vio 


(4cS  WOMAN'S    PRIDE 

(ence  of  speech  and  manner ;  it  is  a  family  failing,  you  know. 
Pray  pardon  me." 

"  Mr.  Clifton,  please  to  sit  down  near  me.  My  voice  is, 
not  strong.  It  may  be  disquietude,  but  I  find  a  difficulty  in 
raising  it,  or  in  keeping  up  a  running  conversation.'5 

"  My  dear  sister,  I  am  afraid  your  lungs  grow  weak  .  I  am 
indeed  !  I  have  noticed  it  before.  I  have  said  the  same  to 
Georgia  and  to  Carolyn  !  Indeed,  my  dear  sister  Clifton,  1 
wish  you  would  take  care  of  yourself.  I  was  a  brute  to  throw 
myself  into  a  passion  in  your  presence.  I  was,  indeed  '  J 
see  it  has  overcome  you  !  Kate  Kavanagh,  my  dear,  7011 
were  perfectly  right.  I  did  forget  myself.  And  you  wtve 
a  fine  girl  to  recall  me.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  dear." 

Blushing  deeply,  as  was  her  wont  when  praised,  Kate  gav ) 
her  hand,  saying — half  apologetically,  half  appealingly — 

"  Mrs.  Clifton  is  not  strong,  sir.  She  should  not  be 
agitated,  especially  so  soon  after  her  son  has  left  her." 

"  I  know  she  is  not  strong  !  My  dear  sister,  I  wish  you'e 
be  careful  of  yourself!  I  do,  indeed!  You're  not  strong." 

"  After  fifty,  we  do  not  grow  strong  as  we  grow  old,"  said 
the  lady,  pointing  to  a  chair  by  her  side,  and  indicating  that 
he  should  take  it!  He  did  so.  And  then  Mrs.  Clifton 
turned  to  Kate,  and  said —  * 

"  Now  Catherine,  my  dear,  I  wish  you  to  go  np  into  my 
chamber  and  amuse  yourself  with  a  book,  while  I  have  a 
confidential  talk  with  Mr.  Clifton." 

Kate  immediately  arose,  courtesied,  and  left  tbo  room. 

Mrs.  Clifton  turned  to  her  brother-in-law,  a" id  said,  in 
quiringly,  "  You  know  the  cause  of  this  lovers'  quarrel  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,  madam !  Satan  fly  away  with  thoni 
both  !  I  know  all  about  it !  It  was  about  her — up  stairs  \'J 
he  replied,  indicating  Kate  Kavanagh  by  a  crook  o/  his  thumb, 

"  Yes  ;  it  was  about  Kate.     But  it  was  very  a'bsurd  '" 

"  Now,  I  don't  know  that  ma'am  !" 

"But  it  certainly  was — ridiculous!  Mr.  Clifton!  she, 
(Catherine,  knows  nothing  about  it !  Does  not  even  dream 
that  she  herself  had  the  remotest  connection  with  the  quarrel, 
Mid  I  do  hope  and  trusfo,  that  she  never  may  suspect  it.  What 
i  wish  to  say  to  you,  is  plainly  this  :  That  I  know  enough 
of  human  nature  generally,  and  of  young  people  particularly, 
and  of  Archer  and  Carolyn  individually,  to  feel  sure  tij 


WOMAN'S    PRIDE.  149. 

very  absurd  and  extremely  inconvenient  quarrel  and  separa 
tion—" 

"  Yes,  very  extremely  inconvenient,  indeed !"  emphatically 
interrupted  the  old  man. 

"  Is  only  temporary — " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  but  that  don't  make  it  the  less  embarrass 
ing — the  less  inconvenient!" 

""  I  know  it !     Hear  me  out !" 

"  What  the  deuce,  ma'am,  are  we  to  do  with  the  people 
who  are  coming  to  the  wedding  even  now  ?" 

"  I  am  about  to  tell  you,  if  you  will  quietly  listen  to  me." 

"  Well !  well !  Yes,  ma'am !  I  beg  your  pardon — I  am 
all  attention." 

"  Carolyn,  I  am  sure,  already  regrets  her  hasty  violence 
of  temper." 

"  Yes  !   that  she  does !     It's  easy  to  see  that !" 

"  And  Archer,  who  is  slower  to  anger  and  slower  to  re 
pentance — though  deeper  and  stronger  in  both  for  being 
slow — Archer,  in  a  very  few  days,  will  bitterly  repent  the 
step  he  has  taken,  more  especially  as  being  on  his  Western 
march,  it  will  be  impossible  to  retrace  it.  Under  these  cir 
cumstances,  this  is  what  you  must  say  to  the  assembled 
company  to-night : — You  must  tell  them,  that  last  night  a 
peremptory  order  arrived  for  Captain  Clifton  to  join  his  regi 
ment  immediately ;  and  that  the  marriage  is  deferred  for  the 
present.  Let  the  company  then  enjoy  themselves  as  at  a  ball. 
And  all  will  go  off  well,  and  without  scandal.  I  will  be 
present  myself,  as  the  representative  of  our  side  of  the  house. 
I  sent  for  you,  Mr.  Clifton,  to  give  you  this  advice,  and  to 
suggest  this  plan  of  action  in  meeting  the  embarrassing  diffi 
culties  of  this  evening.  I  should  not  propose  this,  if  I  were 
not  sure  that  the  marriage  is  only  deferred — that  if  the  par 
ties  live,  it  will  assuredly  take  place.  I  am  certain  it  will, 
Mr.  Clifton  !  I  am  willing  to  pledge  my  own  truth  and  honor 
on  it,  and  become  responsible  for  it !  The  plan  I  propose  to 
you  for  meeting  the  guests  this  evening,  is  truest,  wisest  and 
best— think  of  it!" 

"  I  do  not  think  of  it  at  all !  I  see  its  excellence  at  a 
•glance  .  I  spring  to  meet  it !  I  embrace  it !  I  hug  it  to  n^y 
hoart !  Oh,  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  are  our  deliverer  !  Oh,  Mr*. 
Clifton!  you  are  the  great-grand-daughter  of  Oliver  CroinweJl, 


150  WOMAN'S     PRIDE. 

the  general,  the  conqueror,  the  deliverer,  the  statesman,  the 
politician,  the  diplomatist,  the  everything  at  an  emergency  ! — 
You'll  see  how  gloriously  I'll  execute  your  orders  !  You'll 
make  me  Lieutenant-General  when  you  are  Lady  Protector 
of  the  Commonwealth!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  starting  up 
and  clapping  his  hat  upon  his  head,  and  joking  like  a  boy, 
for  very  joy  that  his  difficulty  was  smoothed.  He  shook  hands 
with  Mrs.  Clifton,  hogging  her  not  to  be  late,  as  he  should 
want  the  encouragement  of  her  presence  in  order  to  enable 
him  to  make  his  speech.  Then  he  mounted  his  horse,  and 
rode  rapidly  away  down  the  mountain-path  to  Clifton.  When 
he  arrived  at  home,  he  found  the  lawn  already  covered  with 
carriages,  horses  and  servants,  and  the  piazza,  halls,  and  all 
the  first  floor  rooms,  thronged  with  company.  He  passed 
through  them  all,  bowing  right  and  left  and  hastened  to  his 
daughter's  room.  Mr.  Clifton  had  some  doubts  about  getting 
his  proud  daughter  to  consent  to  the  wise  plan  suggested  by 
his  sister-in-law.  But  he  meant  to  carry  his  consent  by  a 
coup-de-main.  So  he  pushed  open  her  door,  burst  into  her 
chamber,  and  threw  himself,  puffing,  blowing,  and  perspiring, 
into  the  nearest  chair,  exclaiming — 

"  He's  gone,  Carolyn !     He's  clear  gone,  confound  him  !" 

Carolyn  drew  nearer  her  father,  and  gazed  into  his  face, 
to  read  there  the  confirmation  of  what  she  scarcely  could  be- 
»ieve.  The  old  man  wiped  his  streaming  face  with  his  hand 
kerchief,  and  stuffed  it  again  into  his  pocket,  exclaiming — 

"Yes!  he's  gone!  gone!  gone!  gone!"  Then  opening 
•wide  his  arms,  he  murmured,  "  But  never  mind,  my  dear 
child !  you've  got  your  old  father  left  to  love  you,  and  to 
avenge  you,  too,  if  needful !  Don't  grieve  !  Come  to  my 
bosom  !  Don't  grieve  !" 

"  <  Grieve?  sir !"  exclaimed  the  imperious  girl,  elevating 
her  queenly  head,  "  we  do  not  grieve  for  a  traitor !  We 
pronounce  sentence  on  him,  and  execute  it !" 

"  True  !  true !  my  noble  girl !  There  spoke  your  mother's 
daughter  !  Yet — "  suddenly  cried  the  old  gentleman,  as  by 
a  quick  recollection  and  revulsion  of  feeling,  "  what  a  devil 
of  a  kettle  of  fish  this  is,  my  dear !  Blame  the  fellow,  what 
are  we  to  do  ?  Deuce  take  the  man — what  are  we  to  say  to 
the  people  down  stairs  ?  Say,  Carolyn !  Woman's  wit  is 
quick  '  Can  you  think  of  anything  ?" 


WOMAN'S    PRIDE.  151 

Carolyn  stood  in  proud  and  bitter  thought  for  somo  minutes, 
and  then  she  smiled,  with  a  scornful  smile,  and  said — 

"  Do  nothing,  sir  !  Let  all  go  on  as  was  planned  !  Let 
the  band  of  music  take  its  plaje  in  the  saloon !  Let  the 
wedding  guests  come,  and  be  received  !  And  then  leave  all 
the  rest  to  me !  And  now,  my  dear  father,  pray  excuse  me, 
as  it  is  time  to  dress." 

"  To  dress  !  Why,  Carolyn,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Are 
you  mad?  Dress  for  what?"  asked  the  old  gentleman, 
anxious  to  know  if  perchance  her  idea  in  any  way  resembled 
the  plan  adopted  by  himself,  from  Mrs.  Clifton's  suggestion. 

"  No,  sir !  I  am  not  mad.  <  My  pulse,  as  yours,  doth 
temperately  keep  time,'  "  said  the  young  lady,  extending  her 
hand  to  the  bell-rope,  and  ringing  a  peal  that  presently 
brought  her  woman  hurrying  up  stairs  and  into  her  presence. 

"  Darky  !"  said  she  addressing  her  attendant,  "  go  to  Miss 
Zuleiine,  and  to  the  Misses  Cabell,  and  let  them  know  that  I 
have  waited  for  them  some  time."  The  old  handmaid  went 
out,  and  Carolyn  turned  to  her  father,  and  said,  "  My  dear 
est  father !  when  I  am  dressed  I  will  send  for  you,  and  we 
will  have  a  conversation,  in  which  I  will  tell  you  my  simple 
plan  for  getting  through  the  evening.  I  have  not  quite  ma 
tured  it  yet !  Ah  !  here  are  the  girls  !  Good  evening  for  a 
couple  of  hours,  father  !" 

She  opened  the  door  for  her  father,  who  just  escaped  the 
young  bridesmaids,  who  were  coming  in. 

He  went  out  muttering — 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  means.  I  suppose  I  can  have 
confidence  in  her.  At  least  I  must  for  the  present,  and  then, 
there  is  Mrs.  Clifton's  plan."  He  went  into  his  own  room 
and  prrayed  himself  in  festive  garments  for  the  occasion,  and 
then  went  below  stairs  to  groan  inwardly  over  the  numerous 
arrivals  of  guests,  whose  carriages  thronged  the  lawn,  and 
whose  servants  crowded  the  piazza,  hall  and  entries.  Pre 
sently  a  servant  approached  him,  and  said,  respectfully,  in  a 
k>w  voice — 

"  Miss  Clifton's  compliments,  sir,  and  will  see  you  in  her 
ttm  room." 

The  old  gentleman  hastened  thither.  He  found  his  daugh 
ter  ready  dressed,  and  quite  alone.  Her  bridesmaids  haj 
gene  to  make  their  own  toilets. 


152  WOMAN'S 

"  Father  !"  she  said,  "  I  will  not  wear  the  willow  for  a  re 
creant  lover  !  I  have  determined  that  the  festivities  shall  go 
on  t>nicht.  I  will  go  down  and  lead  off  the  first  dance  my. 
gclfc  You,  my  father,  may  explain,  as  you  please,  that  the 
marriage  is  broken  off,  hut  that  the  music,  dancing,  and  feast 
ing  are  not  arrested  for  that  reason." 

The  old  man  had  determined  within  himself  what  to  speak  • 
hut  he  answered — 

"  My  dear  child,  are  yon  equal  to  it  ?" 

"  Equal  sir?     Try  me  !" 

"  Very  well,  my  dear.  Come  And  I  will  say — what  is 
proper  upon  the  occasion." 

In  the  meanwhile  the  splendid  company  assembled  in  the 
brilliantly  lighted  saloon,  awaited  with  great  impatience  tho 
entree  of  the  bridal  train. 

Made  conspicuous  in  that  gorgeous  assembly  by  his  black 
gown  and  bands,  sat  the  clergyman  who  was  to  perform  tht 
ceremony. 

Georgia — darkly,  resplendently  beautiful  as  ever,  moved 
gracefully  through  the  crowd — full  of  gracious  courtesy,  yet 
flushed,  anxious,  feverish — half  fearing  that  the  .bridegroom 
would  appear  at  this  last  moment.  This  fear  was  aroused 
by  the  presence,  and  the  calm,  cheerful,  self-possessed  looks 
of  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain.  At  length  light  steps  were 
heard  in  the  hall.  The  doors  of  the  saloon  were  thrown 
open.  _And  all  eyes  were  turned  to  see  the  wedding  pro 
cession  enter.  But  instead  of  a  bridal  train,  came  old 
Mr.  Clifton,  leading  in  his  daughter  Carolyn.  The  surprise, 
the  wonder  of  the  company  was  at  first  silent  and  breathless 
as  it  was  profound.  But  soon  a  low  whisper  arose,  and  like 
a  low  breeze  in  the  leaves,  passed  from  one  to  another,  until 
the  room  was  in  a  general  buzz. 

Mr.  Clifton  led  his  daughter  into  the  centre  of  the  saloon, 
and  with  her  still  hanging  on  his  arm,  turned  and  faced  the 
company,  waiting  until  they  should  be  silent  before  he  would 
speak.  The  father  and  daughter,  as  they  stood  there,  pro- 
sented  a  fine,  imposing  appearance.  Both  were  arrayed  wJtt 
the  gorgeous  splendor  that  prevailed  at  that  day. 

The  old  gentleman  had  his  snow-white  hair  turned  back 
off  his  forehead,  and  carried  all  down  to  the  nape  of  his 
ceck,  wh^re  it  was  plaited  into  a  queue,  and  adorned  with  a 


WOMAN'S    PRIDE.  153 

white  satin  bow,  both  snowy  plait  and  bow  in  pleasant 
relief  against  the  back  of  the  dark  crimson  velvet  coat — his 
vest  and  small  clothes  were  of  white  satin,  and  his  long  hose 
of  white  silk  were  fastened  to  the  small-clothes  below  the  knee 
with  white  satin  bows  and  gold  buckles — his  slippers  were 
of  crimson  morocco,  with  high  heels,  large  bows,  and  gold 
buckles.  His  dress  was  rather  antiquated  even  for  that  "day? 
And  he  stood  there  waiting  for  silence  witE^Be~§tKtve~a«^ 
stately  courtesy  of  the  old  school  gentleman. 

Very  much  like  a  queen  looked  the  beautiful  Carolyn,  but 
very  little  like  a  bride,  either  in  her  dignified  self-possession, 
or  in  her  magnificent  array.     Her  fair  hair  was  carried  up 
above  her  forehead,  and  dressed   high,  in  the  regal  style  of 
that  day.     Its  rich  waves  and  bands  were  wreathed  wtfE 
pearls,  and  adorned  with  a  plume  of  white  ostrich  feathers, 
powdered  with  minute  silver  spangles.     Her  neck  and  arms 
were  bare,  but  adorned  with  pearls,  and  softly  shaded  with 
the  finest  lace  at  the  edge  of  the  boddice  and  sleeves.     Her 
dress  was  of  rich  blue  satin  brocade,  made  with  long  waist, 
sharp  pointed   stomacher,  and  flowing  sleeves  and  flowing 
skirt — the  edges  of  the  skirt  finished  with  a  very  deep  border 
of  silver  embroidery ;  a  lighter  border  of  the  same  running 
around  the  sleeves  ;  the  stomacher  was  embroidered  with  sil 
ver  and  pearls.     Over  her  skirt  she  wore  a  train  of  splendid- 
lace,  lightly  embroidered  with  a  running  vine  of  silver.     She 
toyed  with   an  elegant  fan  of  carved  mother-of-pearl   andv 
marabout  feathers.     She  stood  there,  as  I  said,  not  at  all  j 
like  a  bride,  either  in  her  gorgeous  apparel,  or  her  self-assert 
ing  manner.     She  stood  there  with  a  gay,  proud  air,  beneath  j 
which  none  could  have  discerned  the  deeply  humiliated  spirit 
of    the    arrogant  woman,    or  suspected   the  wounded   and 
breaking  heart  of  th^wrsirkmr  bride. — When  the  murmur  of/ 
voices  which  had  greeted' their  entrance  had  subsided,  and 
silence  was  restored,  Mr.  Clifton  bowed  deeply,  and — in  the 
somewhat  high-flown  grandiloquence  of  style  he  had   one* 
seen  exhibited  by  a  manager  of  a  city  theatre,  when  apolo 
gising  for  the  non-appearance  of  the  evening's  star — spoke 
as  follows  :     "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  distinction  of  your 
presence  here  this  evening,  has  been  prayed  that  you  might 
give  the  honor  of  your  countenance  to  the  espousals  of  my 
u  'pbrw  and  daughter.     You  have  graciously  accorded  us  thfl 


154  WOMAN'S    PRIDE 

dignity  of  your  society  here  for  that  purpose."  (An  cmbar 
rassed  pause,  while  the  assembly  listened  in  breathless  curi 
osity  and  expectation,  and  he  continued,)  "  Ladies  and  gentle* 
.men,  «  man  proposes,  but  God  rfwposes.'  The  great  Arbiter 
of  destiny  has  ordained  the  issue  of  events  otherwise  than 
as  we  had  hoped,  planned,  and  expected.  Even  last  night 
suddenly  came  a  peremptory  order  from  head-quarters,  to 
Captain  Clifton,  to  join  his  regiment  instantly  for  thf>  purpose 
of  taking  the  command  oT  a  detachment  of  cavalry,  to  march 
immediatelyjtp  the  Indian  frontier  to  put  djwn  an  irruption 
of  the  ShoshowanawasJL>  Ladies  and  gentlemen  !"  (continued 
the  old  gentleman,  warming  up  with  his  subject,)  "  you  know 
the  stern,  uncompromising  duty  of  the  soldier  at  such  a  cri 
sis.  One  syllable — one  single  syllable  comprehends  his  in 
supportable  obligation — « Go.'  The  man,  the  lover,  the 
bridegroom  must  give  place  to  the  soldier.  As  our  greatest 
poet,  Walter  Scott,  has  it, — the  soldier  at  the  sound  of  the 
trumpet  must 

"  '  Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter, 
The  dead  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar.' 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  our  gallant  Captain  Clifton  has 
literally  left  his  «  bride  at  the  altar.'  But  soldier's  love  may 
not  mourn  bridegroom's  loss.  Nor  may  we  deny  ourselves 
the  distinction  and  joy  of  your  presence  for  the  whole  night 
— nor,"  (the  old  man  was  unconsciously  sliding  from  his 
lofty  magniloquence  down  to  the  plain  vernacular,)  "  nor 
must  I  disappoint  these  young  men  and  maidens  of  their 
dance  to-night.  Ho  !  music  there  !  Strike  up  the  liveliest 
quadrille  air  upon  your  list.  Let  them  dance  to  the  briskest 
music  while  they  are  fresh.  Charley  Cabell,  my  boy,  come 
here  and  lead  out  your  cousin  Carolyn  !" 

Major  Cabell  advanced,  and  with  much  grace  and  dignity 
led  Miss  Clifton  to  the  head  of  the  quadrille,  as  the  musto 
pealed  forth. 

"  Young  gentlemen,  select  your  partners!"  exclaimed  tho 
old  man,  adding  example  to  precept,  by  choosing  tho  youngest 
and  prettiest  girl  in  the  room,  and  leading  her  to  the  place 
right  opposite  his  nephew  and  daughter.  Soon  all  the  sur 
prise  and  disappointment  w-jre  forgotten  in  enjoyment.  The 


WOMAN'S     PKIDE 

evening  was  spent  in  the  gayest  hilarity — Carolyn  Clifton, 
the  forsaken  bride,  apparently  the  gayest  of  the  gay.  So 
gay,  indeed,  was  Miss  Clifton,  that  she  drew  upon  herself  the 
severe  animadversions  of  several  ladies  present,  who  affirmed 
that  her  conduct  was  heartless  in  the  extreme  ;  to  laugh  and 
sing  and  dance  and  jest  with  such  thorough  abandonment  to 
pleasure,  just  after  the  departure  of  her  lover  to  brave  the 
ghastly  horrors  of  Indian  warfare.  Much  more  did  they 
approve  of  the  pensive  manners  of  Zuleime.  Poor  Zuleime 
was  all  unskilled  in  self-control — her  heart  was  "  exceeding 
sorrowful,"  and  so  she  let  it  appear.  The  company  separated 
at  a  very  late  hour  that  night,  or  rather  a  very  early  hour 
of  the  next  morning.  Those  in  the  neighborhood  departing, 
those  from  a  distance  retiring  to  the  chambers  to  take  some 
sleep  before  breakfast,  after  which  they  were  to  set  out  for 


£56  THE      SISTERS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   SISTERS. 


;!  since  I  met  thee  last, 
O'er  thy  brow  a  change  hath  past  ; 
In  »be  softness  of  thine  eyes, 
Deep  and  still  a  shadow  "lies  ; 
From  thy  voice  there  thrills  atone, 
Never  to  thy  childhood  known; 
Through  thy  soul  a  storm  hath  moved, 
-  Gentle  sister,  thou  hat  la  loved. 

OVERTASKED,  weary  and  exhausted  by  her  long  effort*. 
Carolyn  Clifton  sought  her  own  chamber,  and  threw  herself, 
all  splendidly  arrayed  as  she  was,  upon  her  bed.  She  had 
no  foar  of  interruption,  for  it  was  not  yet  daybreak,  and  her 
woman  woald  not  be  up  for  several  hours.  So  she  was  sur 
prised,  find  not  at  all  pleased  when  a  gentle  rap  came  to  the 
door.  She  would  not  answer  or  move  to  let  the  rapper  know 
that  she  w&ri  awake.  She  was  weary,  weary  with  acting  for 
one  night,  and  needed  rest.  But  after  the  unknown  had 
rapped  two  or  three  times,  the  door  was  gently  opened,  and 
the  sweet  voice  of  Zuleime  was  heard  to  say  — 

"  Sister,  I  know  you  are  not  asleep  —  will  you  let  me  come 
in  V9  And  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  entered,  and 
softly  closed  the  door,  and  came  to  the  bedside,  saying  —  "  I 
heard  you  when  you  came  up  and  threw  yourself  down  on 
the  bed,  and  I  knew  you  were  not  asleep  —  let  me  stay  with 
you,  dear  sister,  won't  you  ?" 

"  No,  no,  Zuleime,  I  wish  to  sleep,"  said  Carolyn,  still 
pressing  both  hands  to  her  throbbing  temples. 

"  Well,  then,  dear  Carolyn,  let.  me  undress  you,  you  can 
never  compose  yourself  in  that  dress  ;"  and  the  affectionate 
girl  began  to  take  off  her  slippers  and  stockings,  saying  —  "  I 
can  take  off  all  the  small  articles,  and  unlace  your  stomacher 
without  disturbing  you,  sister,  and  then  you  need  not  stand 
up  more  than  a,  minute  to  disroVe." 


THE     SISTERS.  157 

In  indifference  or  abstraction,  Miss  Clifton  permitted  tha 
gentle  girl  to  unclasp  all  her  jewels,  and  loosen  her  dress, 
without  ever  removing  her  hands,  clasped  tightly  upon  her 
temples,  till  Zuleime,  wishing  to  take  down  the  elaborate 
r.oiffure^  gently  withdrew  them,  and  unwound  the  strings  of 
pearls,  and  unfastened  the  plume  of  feathers.  When  the 
affectionate  girl  had  laid  aside  all  these  glittering  gewgaws, 
and  freed  her  long,  fair  hair,  and  relieved  her  oppressed  and 
fevered  head,  the  proud  and  scornful  Carolyn,  subdued  by 
the  gentleness  of  her  sweet,  only  sister,  looked  in  her  face, 
read  there  a  strange  sympathy,  delicate  as  it  was  deep,  and 
suddenly  put  her  arms  around  her  neck,  drew  her  head  down 
to  her  own,  and  kissed  her  fondly,  murmuring — 

"  Oh,  Zuleime  !  my  child,  my  child  !  if  you  knew — " 

"  I  do  know,  dearest  Carolyn  !  Dearest  sister,  I  do  know 
it  all '  all !  and  feel  it — feel  it  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart! 
That  is  the  reason  I  came  in,  Carolyn !  But  I  did  not  come 
in  to  disturb  you,  even  by  my  sympathy.  I  came  in  to  put 
you  *.o  sleep.  Stand  up,  dearest  Carolyn,  and  drop  these 
heavr  robes,  and  I  will  throw  this  light  wrapper  around  you, 
ftn^  then  you  can  lie  down  again — there ! 

'•-  Oh  !  sleep  ! — when  shall  I  sleep  again  ?"  bitterly  asked 
Carolyn,  as  Zuleime  laid  her  head  tenderly  back  upon  the 
freshened  pillow. 

"  Well,  don't  talk,  dear  Carolyn,  and  you  will  see  that 
God  will  send  sleep."  And  Zuleime  cooled  her  brow  by 
passing  oyer  it  several  times  a  lump  of  ice  in  a  napkin,  and 
laid  down  by  her  side,  and  fanned  her,  in  that  measured, 
monotonous  time,  so  inducive  to  slumber.  So  slowly  she 
fanned  her,  resisting  all  her  attempts  to  enter  into  conversa 
tion,  until  wearied  nature  yielded,  and  Carolyn  was  asleep. 
Then,  as  it  was  morning,  Zuleime  hoisted  the  windows,  to 
admit  a  fresh  current  of  air,  but  left  the  blinds  closed,  to 
exclude  the  light.  Next,  she  put  all  Carolyn's  things  care 
fully  away,  and  silently  restored  the  room  to  order.  Then 
she  laid  a  folded  napkin,  dipped  in  ice-water,  over  the  still 
burning  brow,  and  cautiously  left  the  room,  to  go  and  order 
*oa  and  toast  to  be  ready  for  Carolyn  as  soon  as  she  should 
awake.  She  found  the  house  below  stairs  in  a  great  but 
comparatively  silent  bustle.  The  servants,  who  had  scarcely 
retired  the  night  previous,  were  engaged  in  clearing  away 
10 


.58  THE      SISTERS. 

the  disorder  of  the  saloon,  parlor  and  dining-room,  anu  in 
laying  the  cloth  for  breakfast  for  the  numerous  visitors  who 
had  remained  over  night.  Zuleime  passed  on  to  the  kitchen, 
and  gave  her  orders,  and  then  silently  stole  up  stairs  agaiu 
to  her  sister's  room. 

Carolyn  slept  long  and  heavily.  Several  hours  passed 
before  she  awoke.  When  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  fixed 
them  gratefully  upon  Zuleime,  she  raised  her  arms,  agaiu 
embraged  her,  saying — 

"  You  have  comforted  me,  dear  Zuleime." 

"  And  I  will  comfort  you  more,  dear  sister.  I  know  how 
to  do  it.  How  do  you  feel,  Carolyn  ?" 

"  Better — my  head  clearer — my  nerves  steadier — but  a 
weary  weight  at  my  heart." 

"  It  shall  go  away,  Carolyn.  I  know  how  to  drive  it  away. 
But  first  you  must  take  something.'" 

And  Zuleime  rang  the  bell,  and  told  the  servant  who  ap 
peared,  to  bring  Miss  Carolyn  some  fresh  tea  and  toast. 

While  he  was  gone  after  it,  Zuleime  bathed  her  sister's 
face  and  hands,  and  combed  out  her  hair,  and  by  the  time 
she  was  made  comfortable,  the  servant  re-appeared  with  the 
refreshments. 

After  Carolyn  had  breakfasted  lightly,  (and  this  was  the 
first  food  she  had  taken  for  thirty-six  hours,)  she  fell  ex 
hausted  back  upon  her  pillow,  and  said — 

"  I  cannot  appear  this  morning,  Zuleime !  I  am  tired  01 
acting  a  part!" 

"  You  need  not  do  it,  dear  Carolyn !  The  people  have 
breakfasted,  and  are  almost  all  gone — and  the  others  are 
going.  Carolyn,  dear,  I  saw  Archer  when  he  went  away — " 

Miss  Clifton  was  still  too  proud  to  make  a  comment. 

"  Carolyn,  he  looked  broken-hearted,  despairing — indeed 
he  did  !  Oh,  Carolyn  !  I  think  if  he  could  have  hoped  that 
you  would  have  made  up  with  him,  he  would  have  let  his 
reeiment  go  to  perdition  rather  than  not  hastened  to  your 
feet!" 

"•  Why  did  he  not  try,  then  ?" 

"  Oh,  sister,  you  banished  him,  and  men  have  some  pride. 
He  waited  for  your  relenting,  I  feel  sure !" 

Carolyn  remembered,  with  bitter  regret,  her  refusal  to  tel 
her  father  go  and  r?call  him. 


THE     SISTERS.  159 

"  Carolyn,  write  to  him.  The  detachment  under  his  com 
mand  does  not  march  from  Winchester  for  nine  days  yet. 
Write,  Carotyn — there  is  abundant  time  for  him  to  get  youi 
letter  and  answer  it  before  he  goes.  Then  you  will  be  re 
conciled  and  happy.  Everything  will  be  restored,  and  you 
will  comfort  yourself  by  remembering  that  he  would  have  had 
to  have  gone,  any  way,  and  that  he  is  gone  reconciled!" 

Miss  Clifton  shook  her  hea  d. 

"  No,  Zuleime  !  I  cannot !  I  should  not  know  how  to 
write  such  a  letter  !  What  could  I  say  to  him  ?" 

"  Say  !  /  should  know  what  to  say  !  If  you  have  banished 
him,  revoke  your  sentence  of  exile.  If  you  have  ascertained 
that  you  have  done  him  injustice,  tell  him  so.  If  you  are 
sorry  that  you  parted  in  anger,  let  him  know  it.  If  you  wish 
to  hear  from  him  before  he  goes,  ask  him  to  write  to  you." 

"  I  could  not ! — I  could  not !  I  never  could  write  such  a 
letter  !  My  heart-strings  would  crack  in  the  attempt  " 

"  And  are  you  so  proud "?  And  will  you  let  him  go  forth 
to  that  ghastly  Indian  war — oh,  God  !  my  flesh  creeps  only 
to  think  of  it !"  said  Zuleime,  shuddering.  "  And  will  you 
not  retract  }rour  false  accusation,  and  revoke  your  cruel  sen 
tence  of  banishment,  and  express  kind  feelings  and  kind 
wishes  for  him  about  to  be  exposed  to  such  horrors  ?" 

"  I  can't !  I  can't !  I  cannot!  My  heart-strings  would 
snap  with  the  effort !  I  can  bear  sorrow,  but  not  humiliation ! 
I  can  die,  but  I  cannot  be  humbled !" 

"  You  cannot  be  humbled  by  an  act  of  justice,  sister.  That 
letter  would  be  only  an  act  of  justice.  And,  oh  !  it  would 
give  him  such  happiness,  and  bring  you  such  sweet  peace,  in 
place  of  all  this  heart-burning.  Think  of  it,  dear  Carolyn  !" 

While  Zuleime  spoke,  a  ra-p  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  a 
servant  appeared,  and  said  that  "  Marster  wished  to  see  Miss 
Zuleime  in  the  parlor." 

"  Think  of  it,  dear  Carolyn,"  said  Zuleime,  in  a  cheerful 
voice,  kissing  her  sister's  forehead,  and  then  hastening  out 
of  the  room. 

Carolyn  did  think  of  it !  The  idea  once  presented,  she 
could  not  banish  it  again  ; — the  hope  of  a  reconciliation  onco 
raised,  could  not  be  suppressed !  She  could  think  of  no 
thing  else.  "  It  was  but  an  act  of  common  justice — it  was  a 
duty,"  «he  repeated  to  herself,  many  times,  to  answer  the  ob 


160  THE      SISTERS. 

joctions  of  her  pride,  which  argued,  "  It  is  undignified,  un 
womanly,  to  make  this  overture."  Then  her  love,  her  benevo 
lence,  her  fears  for  him,  pleaded,  "  It  will  make  him  so  happy 
— it  will  fill  his  heart  with  courage,  and  his  arm  with  strength 
for  the  battle !  And  suppose  he  should  be  killed  ? — what 
intolerable  remorse  will  be  added  to  your  sorrow  for  him 
when  you  reflect  that  he  died  without  a  relenting  word  from 
you,  who  have  been  so  cruelly  unjust  to  him !  That  he  died 
under  your  own  sentence  of  exile  !  Besides,  if  none  of  these 
things  happen,  can  you  bear  these  weary,  weary  days  of 
estrangement,  absence,  and  suspense  ? — weary,  weary  days, 
that  will  slowly,  slowly  drag  themselves  through  weeks,  and 
months,  and  years  of  time  ?"  Oh,  no  !  No,  no  !  She  cannot 
bear  that  prospect!  She  will  be  just — she  will  do  her  duty, 
and  satisfy  her  affection  at  the  same  time.  Down,  pride !  for 
she  will  write  that  letter.  She  did  write  it.  She  did  not  read 
it  over  again,  lest  scorn  should  rise  and  compel  her  to  hurl  it 
down  and  set  her  heel  upon  it.  She  set  her  teeth  almost 
grimly  in  her  determination  to  protect  that  gentle,  loving 
missive  of  sorrow  and  affection  from  an  assault  of  her  beset- 
i/ing  sin,  as  she  sealed  and  directed  it.  She  then  slipped  on 
ner  dressing-gown,  and  stole  down  the  back  stairs,  where  she 
found  a  boy  lounging.  She  ordered  him  to  saddle  a  horse 
immediately,  and  take  that  letter  to  the  post  office.  Nay, 
she  waited  till  she  saw  the  boy  off,  and  was  sure  that  none 
had  seen  him  or  the  letter  he  carried.  Then  she  returned 
to  her  own  room,  determining  that  no  soul — not  her  father — 
not  even  Zuleime,  should  share  her  confidence  and  know  he> 
condescension. 


MBS.     FAIRFAX     AND     MAJOR     CABELL.    161 


CHAPTER  XL 

MRS.  FAIRFAX  AND  MAJOR  CABELL. 

A  father  suffering,  and  a  step-dame  false, 
A  foolish  suitor  to  a  wedded  lady. 

SHAKSPEARE — CYMBELINE. 

ZULEIME  went  into  the  parlor  and  found  her  father  alone. 
Ho  was  sitting  in  an  easy-chair,  doing  nothing,  but  appa 
rently  waiting  for  her. 

"  Come  hither,  Zuleime,"  he  said. 

And  when  she  went  up  to  him,  he  drew  her  upon  his  knee, 
and  passed  his  left  arm  around  her  waist,  while,  with  his 
right  hand,  he  smoothed  her  black  hair. 

And  he  gazed  fondly  in  her  face.  He  noticed  that  her 
cheek  was  pale,  and  her  countenance  pensive,  but  hoped  that 
it  was  from  the  excitement  of  the  night  before.  He  could  not 
bear  to  think  of  its  being  regret  for  Frank.  He  feared  to  ask 
her  the  cause  of  her  seriousness.  He  disliked  to  recall  Frank 
in  any  manner  to  her  recollection.  He  wished  her  to  forget 
him,  if  possible.  At  least,  he  would  do  so. 

"  Zuleime,"  he  said,  after  he  had  stroked  her  hair  some- 
time,  "  you  know,  my  love,  that  your  aunt  Cabell,  and  your 
cousins,  are  going  back  to  Richmond  to-day." 

"Are  they,  sir?  I  did  not  know  it,"  said  Zuleime,  turn 
ing  paler,  with  apprehension  of  something  that  might  be 
coming. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  they  are.  And,  Zuleime — "  here  he 
paused — then  he  went  on,  "  you  have  been  thinking,  I  sup 
pose,  that  you  should  have  to  return  with  them,  to  enter 
upon  your  school  duties  again,  as  the  first  of  September  is 
«o  near." 

UI  bad  not  thought  of  it,  sir!     So  many  things  happen 
ing,  put  it  out  of  my  head.     But  I  am  quite  willing  to  go, 
and  can  be  ready  in  half  an  hour." 


I'.V2    MRS.  FAIRFAX  AND  MAJOR  C  A  BELL. 

"  Thank  you,  my  dear  child.  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you 
BO  prompt  to  oblige  me  ;  but,  my  dear  Zuleirue,  I  have  good' 
news  for  you." 

"  Good  news,  sir?" 

-*  Yes,  girl !  the  best  news  !  the  very  best  news  !  news  that 
young  ladies  always  rejoice  to  hear !" 

"  What  news,  sir  ?"  she  asked,  fearfully. 

"  Don't  whine,  girl !  it  is  not  your  sentence  of  death !  It 
is  your  deed  of  emancipation !  Your  *  free  papers,'  as  the 
niggers  would  say.  You  are  not  to  return  to  school  any 
more !  Are  you  not  surprised  ?  Are  you  not  rejoiced 
now  ?" 

Zuleime  was  not.     She  was  anxious,  foreboding. 

"  Why  don't  you  speak,  my  dear  ?  Ain't  you  glad  you'ro 
not  going  back  to  school,  to  leather  shoulder  braces  and  back 
boards,  and  square  and  compass  rules  and  regulations,  that 
mean  nothing,  unless  they  mean  persecution  and  torture ! 
Say,  ain't  you  glad  ?" 

"  I  think  I  had  rather  go  back  to  school  for  the  present, 
sir." 

"  Nonsense,  now,  my  dear  !  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is !  You 
want  to  return  with  your  dear  aunt  Cabell,  and  the  dear  city 
cousins — especially  cousin  Charley  !  Eh,  you  monkey  !  You 
grow  tired  of  the  country  and  your  old  father,  as  soon  as 
ever  your  aunt  and  cousins  talk  about  returning  to  the  city ! 
Ah !  you  rogue,"  said  the  old  man,  chucking  her  under  the 
chin,  and  devoutly  praying  that  he  might  be  right  in  his  con 
jecture — for,  oh  !  that  child's  happiness  !  It  lay  nearer  his 
heart  than  anything  else  on  .earth  or  in  heaven. 

"  Dear  father  !"  she  said,  embracing  him,  "  I  do  not  wish 
to  leave  you,  indeed  I  do  not.  I  prefer  the  country.  And 
1  had  rather  never  leave  you,  or  my  home." 

"  Dear  little  rogue,  now  don't  tell  me  that !  I  know  better 
you  know !  And  it  is  quite  natural,  and  nobody  blames  you 
The  young  bird  must  leave  its  nest,  and  the  young  girl  her 
home,  when  she  becomes  a  wife.  Your  mother  left  her  pa- 
ion  ts  and  came  home  here  with  her  husband.  So  do  not 
Iliink,  my  love,  that  your  old  father  will  charge  you  with 
selfishness  for  wishing  to  leave  him — no,  not  wishing  to  leave 
him,  h-it  wishing  to  go  with  one  who  is  to  be  your  hus- 
oaud  » 


MRS.  FAIRFAX  AND  MAJOR  CABELL. 

Zuleime  dropped  her  head,  to  conceal  the  deadly  pallor 
flint  crept  over  her  face. 

"  Yes,  dear  Zuleime,  you  will  soon  return  to  Richmond, 
though  it  will  be  not  as  a  school-girl — but  as  a  happy  bride — 
as  Mrs.  Major  Cabell !  What  a  sonorous  name  and  title  for 
my  little,  romping  Zuleime  !  Here,  Charley  Cabell !  I  havo 
broken  the  ice,  now  come  and  speak  for  yourself !"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Clifton  to  Major  Cabell,  who  was  going  by  the  door. 
Major  Cabell  came  in,  passing  the  old  gentleman,  who  had 
seized  his  hat,  and  not  trusting  himself  to  look  at  his  daugh 
ter,  rushed  out  of  the  room.  Zuleime  remained  standing 
where  he  had  placed  her,  when  he  put  her  off  his  knee — 
panic  struck — stupid — until  Major  Cabell  took  her  hand, 
and  attempted  to  lead  her  to  a  seat,  then  snatching  her  hand 
away  with  a  shudder,  she  asked  almost  wildly — 

"  Cousin  Charles,  when  does  father  want  this  marriage  to 
come  off?" 

"  As  soon  as  my  dearest  Zuleime  will  consent  to  make  me 
Jio  happiest  of  men  !"  replied  the  common-place  wooer,  at 
tempting  to  re-capture  her  hand,  but  she  retreated  shudder 
ing,  and  asking,  in  a  frantic  tone  and  manner,  in  great  con 
trast  to  her  calm  words — 

"  Cousin  Charles,  do  me  a  favor !  Do  not  press  this  mat 
ter  for  a  week  or  so." 

"  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  hurry  a  lady,  though  that 
lady  be  my  own  little  cousin  and  betrothed — only  fix  the  day 
and  I  will  rest  content — so  that  it  is  not  a  far  distant  day," 
he  said,  re-capturing  her  hand,  throwing  his  arm  around  her 
waist,  and  drawing  her  towards  him. 

"  Please,  don't !  Let  me  go,  cousin  Charles  !"  exclaimed 
the  girl,  in  great  distress,  struggling  to  free  herself. 

"  *  Please,  don't  let  me  go,  cousin  Charles  !'  I  don't  in 
tend  to,  pretty  cousin,  until  you  tell  me  when  you  will  give 
yourself  to  me!"  replied  Major  Cabell,  kissing  her  all  tho 
more  heartily  because  she  strove  to  escape. 

"  You  know  what  I  meant !  Let  me  alone  !  It  is  un 
manly  to  behave  so!  Don't  make  me  hate  you!"  was  en 
her  quivering  lips  and  in  her  flashing  eyes,  as  by  a  sudden 
effort  she  threw  his  arms  off  and  sat  down ;  but  then  she  re 
collected  her  father,  and  the  cruel  power  Major  Cabell  seeiueu 


104        MRS.     FAIRFAX     AND     MAJOR     CABELL. 

to  possess  over  him,  and  she  choked  down  the  indignant 
words,  and  said  instead — 

'« Please,  don't  hurry  and  worry  me,  cousin  Charles ! — 
this  is  so  very  sudden !  I  am  sure  I  never  dreamed  you 
would  ask  for  poor  me  for  years  to  come  yet.  I  am  so 
young." 

" *  So  young !'  Ah,  Zuleiine.  that  is  a  piece  of  pretty  little 
womanish  hypocrisy — a  little  finesse  that  belongs  to  your 
character,  and  is  inherited  from  your  French  mother  !  <  So 
young!'  Now,  my  pretty  childish  cousin,  you  know  ycu 
have  received  an  offer  of  marriage  this  very  week !  And 
that,  indeed,  has  accelerated  my  proposal.  Fair  Zuleime,  a 
man  does  not  care  to  see  his  young  betrothed  bride  courted 
by  another !" 

"  1  know  that  /"  replied  Zuleime,  in  a  peculiarly  sad  voice, 
moving  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

The  slightest  gesture  of  avoidance  of  him  by  the  girl, 
seemed  to  act  as  a  provocative  on  him,  so  he  followed  her, 
and  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  laughing,  almost  rudely 
kissed  her,  begging  her  between  the  kisses  not  to  set  his 
heart  on  fire  by  her  charming  prudery  and  petulance,  but  to 
fix  the  day,  like  a  good,  sensible  girl  as  she  was.  Almost 
frantic  with  rage  and  shame  at  being  so  freely  handled,  the 
Clifton  blood  rushed  to  her  brain,  and  forgetting  her  father's 
interest  and  everything  else,  she  dashed  her  hand  violently 
into  his  face,  and  before  he  recovered  from  his  astonishment, 
broke  from  him  and  escaped — her  heart  beating  with  one 
thought — one  sudden,  joyous  thought — that  come  what  might, 
she  never  could  be  either  forced  or  persuaded  into  a  marriage 
with  Major  Cabell,  because  she  was  already  a  wedded  wife — 
no  set  of  circumstances,  whatever,  could  make  it  her  duty, 
or  make  it  even  possible  for  her  to  marry  Major  Cabell.  In 
all  her  sorrows,  that  was  one  blessed  truth  to  sit  down  and 
rest  upon.  All  her  duty  was  now  due  to  her  husband.  And 
with  a  youthful  wife's  enthusiasm  firing  and  strengthening 
her  heart,  she  thought  she  should  stand  as  upon  a  rock, 
secure  against  a  sea  of  troubles.  Poor  child  .  she  had  yet 
to  learn  that  no  position  founded  on  a  fault  is  for  a  moiucn 
gife.  Several  things  soon  forced  themselves  upon  her  mo 
uiory  and  grieved  her  heart; — her  father's  unknown  but 
danger,  her  own  promise  of  secrecy  ic  regard  to  Lei 


MRS.  FAIRFAX  AND  MAJOR  CABELL.  105 

marriage,  the  necessity  of  giving  some  definite  answer  to 
Major  Cabell,  and  the  obligation  pressing  upon  her  to  pre 
vent,  by  all  and  any  means,  the  highly  improper  and  ex 
tremely  offensive  demonstrations  of  passion  from  her  suitor, 
She  determined  to  write  to  Frank,  tell  him  all  that  had 
occurred,  and  ask  his  advice  and  direction  ;  and  to  do  this  it 
was  necessary  to  gain  time,  and  to  give  no  false  promise  in 
the  interim.  Already  was  Zuleime  beginning  to  taste  the 
bitter  fruits  of  her  stolen  marriage,  and  might  have  exclaimed, 
in  the  perplexity  of  her  distracted  heart  and  brain — 

Oh,  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave, 
When  first  we  venture  to  deceive. 

While  Zuleime's  heart  was  beating  so  fast  with  many  emo 
tions,  her  father  sauntered  into  the  parlor,  where  he  found 
Major  Cabell  caressing  and  soothing  his  afflicted  face. 

"  Well,  Charley,  boy !  How  is  it  with  you,  eh  ?  Could 
you  win  a  hearing  from  my  little  girl,  oh  ?  Give  her  time, 
you  know,  eh  ?"  said  the  old  gentleman,  aifecting  a  lightness 
of  heart  which  he  was  very  far  from  feeling. 

To  his  surprise,  Major  Cabell  laughed  heartily,  still  coax 
ing  his  ill-used  phiz. 

«  What's  the  matter,  Charley  ?   What's  amused  you,  eh  I" 
u  Your  girl !    By  my  soul,  Governor,  I  shall  end  in  falling/ 
seriously  in  love  with  that  girl !     I  didn't  fancy  her  much  a 
first  to  tell  you  the  truth !   She  was  entirely  too  good  humorec 
--always  laughing.    And  I  had  a  fancy  for  marrying  a  shrew 
just  for  the  spicy  fun  of  taming  one !     The  same  instinct 
Governor,  that  makes  me  like  to  spring  upon  the  back  of  the 
most  vicious  horse  I  can  find,  and  ride  and  lash  and  spur 
and  fatigue  the  soul  out  of  his  body,  until  I  break  his  back 
or  his  temper,  one — eh,  Governor  ?" 

The  old  man's  florid  cheeks  became  pale  with  rage,  and  he 
felt  an  impulse  t<?  kick  the  puppy  out,  but  a  terrible  nects- 
sity  tied  his  tongue  and  hands,  and  Charles  Cabell  went  on 
laughing  and  talking  to  this  effect : — 

"  Now,  then,  having  a  fancy  to  marry  and  tame  a  shrew- 
real   live,   vicious,  beautiful  vixen — I  did  not  want  the 
spiciest  part  of  the  sport  taken  out  of  my  hands  by  father? 
and  mothers  and  jastors  and  masters.     I  shouldn't  have 
thanked  any  of  you  for  presenting  me  with  a  model  wife, 


V"  - 


166         MKS.     FAIRFAX     AND      MAJOR     CABELL. 

already  smoothed  down  and  polished  to  my  hand.  D — n 
your  pretty  pieces  of  perfection '  I'll  none  of  them — fiat, 
insipid  nonentities  ! — formed  and  re-formed,  and  modelled, 
and  re-modelled,  and  rubbed  down  and  polished  until  they 
all  look  as  much  alike  as  beads  on  a  string !  No.  none  of 
^  your  polished  gems  for  Charles  Cabell ! — the  bright,  pure, 
\  rough,  sharp  ore !  Now,  of  Zuleime,  I  thought  her  far  too 
I  V  much  educated — too  good  humored,  too  polite,  too  docile, 
too  much  of  the  young  *  lady,'  too  little  of  the  wild  young 
animal — arid  flat  and  insipid  in  consequence  ;  so  I  cared  very 
little  about  her.  But,  ha,  ha,  ha !  I  never  was  more  mis 
taken  in  my  life  !  She's  a  prize,  I  tell  you  !  A  prize  of  the 
first  class !  Look  you !  I  coveted  a  shrew  !  I've  found  a 
virago !  full  of  blood  and  fire !  strong  and  vicious,  I  tell  you ! 
ha,  ha,  ha!  Think  of  her  dashing  her  little  hand  in  my  face 
when  I  went  to  kiss  her,  ?,nd  before  I  recovered  my  eyesight 
imd  senses,  throwing  mo  off  as  if  I  had  been  a  child,  and 
escaping  !  Ha,  ha,  hi '  /.  under-estimated  her  strength  ! — 
Never  mind !  let  the  little  tigress  look  out  for  the  next  time 
I  get  her  in  my  arms'" 

The  old  man's  bosom  was  filled  to  burning  with  suppressed 
passion,  but  he  answered,  calmly — 

"  Oh !  she's  young- — she's  young ,  a  spoiled  child — a  spoiled 
child  ;  bo  patient  with  her — she  means  well — give  her  time — 
be  j>it:er.t  w'oh  her." 

a<  Patient  with  her!'  Why,  uncle,  I  wouldn't  have  her 
a  J.it  different  from  what  she  is !  She's  charming,  delight- 
fo),  piquant^  ^picy !  '  Patient  with  her!'  Why,  Gov',  I 
fhall  end  in  falling  desperately  in  love  with  her  !  But  I  say, 
mine  !  make  the  little  virago  fix  our  marriage  day,  will  you  ? 
I  have  got  to  go  out  now  arid  have  Spitfire  saddled  ;  those 
fellows  never  draw  the  girth  tight  enough,  or  fix  the  bit  firm 
enough — and  I  have  to  pull  her  head  off  to  stop  her  some 
times,  for  she  is  the  foul  fiend  incarnate  when  she  gets  to 
running.  I'll  make  Zule  ride  her  sometime,  to  see  which 
will  get  the  better  of  the  other.  Say,  Gov',  let  me  have  my 
Answer  when  I  get  back — do  you  hear."  And  seizing  up 
his  riding-whip  and  cracking  it  against  his  boots,  he  weiit 
out 

The  old  man   boiled   over — he  clenched  his  teeth,  and 
^  nhook  his  fist — nay,  shook  his  whole  person,  as  he  turned 


I 


MRS.      FAIRFAX     AND     MAJOR      CABELL.    167 

livid  with  rage;  then  his  arms  fell  helplessly  by  his  side — 
he  sank  into  a  chair-  dropped  his  face  upon  his  hands,  and 
groaned  aloud.  He  felt  a  pair  of  arms  encircling  his  nock, 
and  a  sweet  voice  murmuring  in  his  ear — and  he  raised  his 
head  to  see  Zuleime,  and  to  hear  her  ask  in  loving  tones  — 

"  Father,  what  is  it  ?" 

He  put  his  hand  tenderly  around  her  waist,  and  drew  her 
gently  to  his  knee,  and  said,  while  he  gazed  remorsefully 
into  her  face — 

u  I  am  a  villain,  Zuleime  !      A  hoary-headed  villain  !" 

Zuleime  placed  her  hand  upon  his  mouth  to  stop  the  dread 
ful  words,  and  pressed  her  lips  to  his  brow,  with  a  look  aim 
manner  of  the  profoundest  love  and  veneration. 

"  Yes,  a  hardened,  persevering  sinner,  Zuleime !  For  I 
intend  to  persevere  !  I  intend  to  give  you  to  Charley  Cabell, 
my  child,"  he  said,  gently  removing  her  hand,  and  still 
gazing  on  lier.  He  continued — "  T  love  you  so  much,  Zu 
leime  !  I  love  you  so  much  !  But,  dear  child.  He's  coming' 
Dear  child,  tell  me  when  you  will  marry  Charley — Tuesday 
three  weeks  or  four  weeks  ?  Don't  let  it  be  longer  than  four 
weeks,  my  girl !" 

"  Father  i  will  you  tell  me  why  you  wish  me  to  marry 
cousin  Charles'?" 

"I  cannot!  I  cannot!  My  child,  I  cannot.  It  is  foi 
your  good,  I  hope!  Some  day  I  will,  perhaps.  Tell  me 
now,  that9*  a  good  girl.  What  day  will  you  give  this  little 
hand  to  cousin  Charley  ?" 

"  Father,  I  can't  possibly  give  an  answer  for  a  week  yet , 
indeed,  father,  I  cannot!" 

"  Come,  now,  nonsense,  my  child  ;  why  can't  you  ?  Her* 
is  Charley  now !  come  !" 

"  I  cannot,  father  !" 

The  old  gentleman  kissed,  and  coaxed,  and  almost  wept ; 
a  rnauner  of  attack  so  hard  to  be  resisted,  that  had  Zuleime 
been  really  free,  she  would  have  sacrificed  her  own  and 
Frank's  hopes,  and  yielded.  But  Zuleime  was  not  free,  and 
therefore  was  as  firmly  proof  against  persuasion,  as  she  would 
have  been  against  force.  Two  powerful  motives  operated  iu 
preventing  her  from  confessing  her  marriage — first  her  pro 
mise  to  keep  it  secret,  and  then  the  fear  of  precipitating 
aomc  violent  scene  between  her  father  and  cousin,  or  gome 


168        MKS.     FAIRFAX     AND    MAJOR     CABELL. 

fatal  catastrophe  to  the  household.  To  end  the  Conflict,  and 
to  gain  time  to  consult  Frank,  by  writing,  was  what  she 
most  wished  now.  Finally,  she  promised  to  givQ  Major 
Cabell  his  answer  in  a  week,  and  to  marry  him — if  sh»,  should 
ever  marry  anybody. 

With  this  promise,  Major  Cabell  seemed  satisfied  -and 
with  his  mother  and  sisters  took  leave  of  Clifton.  A  -xid  Zu- 
leime  retired  to  her  own  room,  full  of  self-reproach  toj  be/ 
own  deception. 


SUSPENSE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

SUSPENSE. 

Uncertainty! 

Fell  demon  of  our  fears  !     The  human  soul 
That  can  sustain  despair — endures  not  thee. — ANON. 

A  WEARf  week  passed  away.     Zuleime  had  written  co 
Frank,  and  Carolyn,  we  already  know,  had  despatched  a 
letter  to  Archer.     But  the  week  had  passed  away,  and  no 
answer  to  either  had  come  from  Winchester.    Had  the  sisters 
confided  in  each  othor,  such  mutual  confidence  might  have 
soothed  the  soul-sickening  anxiety  of  one  at  least.     Carolyn 
would  have  known  that  some  accident  must  have  prevented 
Frank  Fairfax  from  receiving  or  answering  the  momentous 
letter  of  his  youthful  wife,  and  she  would  have  felt  that  the 
same  cause  had  probably  operated  in  the  case  of  Archer 
Clifton.     But  the  sisters  did  not  entrust  their  secrets  to  each 
other.     Zuleime  was  withheld  by  her  sacred  promise.     Caro 
lyn  by  her  pride.     But  the  wife  bore  the  pain  of  suspense  far 
better  than  the  maiden.     The  wife  had  perfect  faith  in  her 
young  husband,  and  knew  that  some  adverse  chance  had 
hindered  his  getting  or  replying  to  her  letter.     The  maiden 
knew  that  she  had  unjustly  banished  her  lover.     And  she 
had  no  faith  in  the  love  that  endureth  all  things.     Carolyn 
had  never  suspected  the  depth  of  that  calm,  secure,  habitual 
affection — which    had   from    childhood    grown — until   now. 
While  life  and  love  and  hope  had  flowed  smoothly  on,  her 
emotions  were  serene  and  moderate.     But  now  that  the  quiet 
ctream  had  been  stemmed  by  rocks  and  breakers,  it  was 
iashed  into  fury  and  roared  in  whirlpools.     The  calm  senti 
ment  rose  to  turbulent,  maddening  passion.     Her  days  were 
restless,  her  nights  sleepless,  until,  as  the  week  wore  away, 
her  nerves  were  wrought  to  such  severity  of  tension,  that  you 
uji^ht  knNw  that  at  the  end  of  uncertainty,  whether  thai  wen 


170  SUSPENSE. 

joy  or  sorrow,  they  must  alike  suddenly  give  way.  Towards 
the  last  of  the  week,  she  had  privately  besought  Inr  father  to 
ride  to  Winchester,  and  see  the  detachment  off,  and  bring 
her  the  last  news  of  it.  The  request  had  been  confidential  — 
yet  do  you  feel  all  that  it  had  cost  her  haughty  heart  ? 
During  the  absence  of  Mr.  Clifton,  suspense  was  wrought  up 
to  agony.  Her  days  and  nights  were  feverish,  delirious,  and 
so  confused  into  each  other,  that  she  scarcely  knew  the  fitful, 
disturbed  visions  of  the  night,  from  the  wild  and  anxious 
breedings  of  the  day.  The  day  upon  which  her  father  was 
expected  back,  was  the  acme,  the  crisis  of  her  suffering. 
Oblivious  of  pride  and  caution,  careless  of  exposing  herself 
to  the  malign  sneers  of  Georgia,  or  the  rude  comments  of  the 
servants,  she  sat  in  the  piazza,  watching  the  road  by  which 
the  carnage  should  come — one  wild,  anxious,  depairing  hope 
possessing  her.  "  The  drowning  catch  at  straws" — and  she, 
in  her  despair,  had  clutched  one  mad  possibility,  and  clung 
to  it,  until  to  her  weakened,  confused,  insane  soul,  it  seemed 
a  probability,  and  then  almost  a  certainty.  It  was  the  hope 
that  Clifton  might  return  with  her  father !  Oh,  yes  !  Th^i 
Clifton  might  resign  his  commission  and  come  back  to  her. 
Oh !  if  indeed  he  loved  her,  ?.s  he  had  a  thousand  times 
sworn,  if  he  sorrowed  over  their  estrangement  only  half  as 
much  as  she  did,  no  hope  of  glory,  no  fear  of  disgrace  would 
keep  him  back.  The  more  she  brooded  over  this,  the  more 
likely,  the  more  certain  il  appeared  to  be.  And  she  sat  and 
gazed  up  the  dim  forest  road. 

The  sun  sank  to  the  edge  of  the  horizon,  and  lit  up  all  the 
mountain  tops  with  fire,  and  then  went  down.  Arid  when 
she  could  no  longer  see,  she  still  sat  and  strained  her  ear  to 
catch  the  distant  sound  of  wheels. 

The  moon  arose,  and  flooded  all  the  mountain  scenery  with 
silver  light,  and  flashed  upon  that  distant  bend  of  the  river, 
until  it  seemed  a  silver  lake,  lying  among  the  dark  hills,  and 
pointed  the  peaks  of  White  Cliffs,  until  they  stood  up  and 
glittered,  like  an  enormous  row  of  spears,  against  the  deep 
blue  sky. 

At  last,  at  last  the  very  distant  sound  of  wheels  came 
faintly  like  a  doubt  to  her  ear,  and  faded  away  again.  Then 
it  came  more  distinctly,  nearer,  and  a  moving  object  ap 
peared  upon  the  road.  And  she  knew  indeed  it  was  her 


SUSPENSE.  l?j 

father's  carriage.  She  saw  and  recognized  it  in  the  moon 
light.  It  turned  into  the  lawn  gate,  rolled  rapidly  around 
the  circular  drive,  and  swept  swiftly  up  to  the  entrance, 
where  it  stopped.  The  steps  were  let  down,  the  door  opened, 
and  old  Mr.  Clifton  got  out,  followed  by — no  one. 

Carolyn  had  bent  eagerly,  unconsciously  forward  :  now  she 
started  up  and  caught  her  father's  hand,  and  gazed  silently, 
imploringly  into  his  face,  for  the  news  she  could  not  ask 
for. 

"  The  detachment  has  marched,  my  dear  child  !  Marched 
the  morning  of  the  day  upon  which  I  reached  Winchester, 
and  two  days  before  it  was  expected  to  have  gone.  So,  you 
see,  I  could  not  get  a  sight  of  either  Frank  or  Archer.  They 
were  thirty  miles  on  their  road  before  I  reached  the  city. 
Can't  think  what  could  have  been  the  reason  of  the  new 
order,  to  anticipate  their  departure  by  two  days.  However  ! 
cheer  up  !  No  use  fretting,  my  dear  !  No  use  fretting !  The 
family  have  supped  long  ago,  of  course — have  they  kept  my 
supper  hot  for  me  ?  I  am  as  hungry  as  an  old  wolf,"  said 
the  old  man. 

Carolyn  did  not  hear  him.  Her  hold  relaxed  upon  his  arm, 
her  hands  flew  up  to  her  head,  and  she  turned,  as  one  struck 
with  sudden  blindness,  and  tottered  into  the  house.  It  was 
so  dark  in  the  shady  piazza,  screened  from  the  moonbeams 
by  interlacing  cypress  vines,  that  the  old  man  did  not  see  her 
state.  He  hastened  into  the  house,  where  another  awaited 
him  with  equal  anxiety. 

Zuleime's  private  hope  had  been  that  Frank  would  seize 
the  opportunity  of  Mr.  Clifton's  visit,  and  confess  his  mar- 
riaa:e,  and  invent  some  way  of  delivering  her  father  from  the 
toils  of  Major  Gabell. 

"  What  news,  father  ?"  she  askea,  meeting  him  in  the  hall. 

"  *  What  news  ?'     Why,  I  am  as  hungry  as  a  bear,  my 

pet !     That's  the  news  !     I  stopped  to  supper  at  L . 

But,  my  life !  They  like  to  have  poisoned  me  with  fried 
beefsteaks  and  heavy  biscuits  and  green  coffee.  Couldn't 
touch  a  morsel,  child  !  And  now  I  am  starved  up  to  a  savage 
pitch  !  What  have  you  got  for  supper  ?" 

"  Turtle  soup  and  old  crusted  port,  among  other  things, 
father,"  replied  Zuleime,  waving  her  own  anxiety  for  the  sake 
of  satisfying  him. 


172  SUSPENSE. 

"  TURTLE  SOUP  !  And  OLD  CRUSTED  PORT  ;"  exclaimed 
the  old  man,  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight.  "  Why,  where  on  earth 
did  they  come  from  ?" 

"  The  turtle  came  from  a  ship  at  Norfolk,  and  was  sent 
hither  by  Major  Cabell,  who  added  a  dozen  of  port  of  his 
own  importation,"  said  Zuleime,  dying  with  anxiety  to  hear 
from  Frank. 

"  Ah-h-h-h !  That  was  kind  !  He's  a  fellow  !  He'll  make 
a  magnificent  husband  and  son-in-law,  Zuleime  !  I  hope  you 
know  how  turtle  soup  should  be  made  ?" 

"  Father,  I  know  it  should  be  eaten  quite  hot)  and  it  is  on 
the  table  by  this  time.  Come  in." 

The  old  man  needed  no  pressing,  but  went  into  the  dining- 
room,  and  sat  down  at  the  table,  with  a  face  radiant  with  de 
light.  Zuleime  waited  on  him,  although  there  was  a  servant 
in  attendance.  And  when  he  had  freely  partaken  of  turtle 
soup,  devilled  crabs,  a  roasted  fowl,  etc.,  washed  them  down 
with  port  wine,  she  brought  him  a  cup  of  fragrant  Mocha 
coffee  and  his  case  of  cigars.  And  he  sipped  the  coffee  with 
an  air  of  infinite  leisure,  and  then  lit  a  cigar  and  puffed  slowly 
away,  as  if  eternity  was  before  him. 

"  Father,  what  news  from  Winchester  ?"  again  asked  Zu 
leime,  though  her  hopes  had  fallen  very  low.  "  What  news, 
dear  father  ?" 

"  What's  that  to  you,  my  pet  ?  Will  you  let  me  digest 
my  supper  in  peace  ?" 

Zuleime  sat  down,  but  looked  so  anxious,  that  her  vary 
looks  worried  the  old  gentleman,  and  he  said — 

"  Don't  you  know,  girl,  that  indigestion  is  very  dangerous 
to  a  man  of  my  time  of  life  ?  It  may  bring  on  apoplexy  ! 
Don't  worry  me!" 

Zuleime  veiled  her  anxious  gaze,  but  even  then  the  pale 
ness  of  her  cheeks  annoyed  her  father,  and  he  testily  in 
quired — 

"  Now,  what  is  it  to  you  ?  I  can  understand  Carolyn's 
anxiety.  I  cannot  comprehend  yours  at  all !  There,  now 
Go  and  send  my  wife  to  me !" 

Zuleime  arose  to  obey,  but  before  she  went,  she  threw  her 
arms  around  his  neck,  and  asked — 

"  Dearest  father,  only  tell  me  !  Where  our  friends  well  ' 
Vlave  they  gone  ?  Did  they  send  any  message  ?" 


SUSPENSE.  ITfi 

"Only  answer  you  three  questions  at  a  time!  That  is 
reasonable !  However,  I  can  answer  all  in  one.  I  have  not 
seen  onr  friends.  Their  cletatchment  loft  Winchestei  twelve 
hours  before  I  reached  there.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  what  * 
iid  not  like  to  tell  Carolyn,  poor  girl !  Namely,  that  the  da 
tanluncnt  inarched  two  days  earlier  than  was  intended,  upon 
account  of  dispatches  received  from  Fort  —  — ,  praying  for 
speedy  succor  in  a  reinforcement.  The  savages  have  been 
uiassacreing  and  scalping  there  at  a  most  tremendous  rate ! 
It  is  really  a  very  dangerous  service,  Indian  warfare !  God 
grant  that  our  young  friends  may  return  to  us  safe  !  Why 
don't  you  go  along  and  tell  Georgia  to  come  to  me  ?" 

Zuleirae  kissed  her  father,  settled  the  cushion  under  his 
feet,  and  went  on  her  errand.  That  dispatched,  she  sought 
her  own  chamber,  and  lay  down  to  collect  her  thoughts.  No 
letter  or  message  from  her  husband,  and  her  promise  of 
gecrecy  in  regard  to  her  marriage,  binding  on  her  as  ever. 
And  next  week  she  must  give  an  answer  to  her  father  for 
Major  Cabell.  She  was  confident  that  one  of  two  things  had 
happened.  Either  her  letter  had  never  reached  Frank,  or  else 
his  answer  had  been  lost.  And  by  the  transaction  only 
one  week's  respite  had  she  gained  for  her  father — for  noxt 
week  her  refusal  must  be  decided  and  final,  and  then — what 
might  not  the  consequence  be  to  him  ?  These  thoughts  ex 
cited  her  mind,  and  kept  her  awake.  And  despite  her  de 
termination  to  sleep,  and  her  efforts  to  do  so,  she  heard  every 
passing  hour  strike.  It  was  soon  after  one  o'clock  that  she 
had  fallen  into  a  fitful  slumber,  when  she  was  awakened  by 
the  sound  of  a  gay,  high  voice,  intermingling  merry  words 
and  joyous  laughter.  Indeed,  there  seemed  to  be  not  only 
one,  but  many  voices,  talking  and  laughing  in  the  most  jocund 
manner.  And  strange — passing  strange !  it  seemed  to  come 
from  hei  sister's  room,  which  adjoined  hers !  She  listened 
awhile ;  the  words  became  fewer,  but  the  laughter  grew 
wilder !  And  then  it  struck  upon  her  frightened  senses  that 
Carolyn  was  a  maniac,  talking,  laughing  to  herself!  Spring 
ing  from  her  bed,  and  without  even  waiting  to  slip  on  a  gown, 
she  ran  into  the  passage  and  knocked  at  her  sister's  door. 
and  attempted  to  push  it  open.  It  was  locked  on  the  inside, 
und  all  her  efforts  to  force  an  entrance  were  vain,  and  all  her 
<».n treaties  for  admission  were  answered  by  peals  of  uncor 
11 


174  SUSPENSE. 

scions  laughter.  At  last  she  ran  to  her  father's  door,  and 
rapped  loudly,  exclaiming — 

"  Father,  father  !  Get  up  !  get  up  !  Something,  I  am 
sure,  has  happened  to  Carolyn  !  Something  dreadful !  Get 
up  !  get  up !" 

The  old  man  was  hard  to  awaken,  even  by  the  efforts  of 
Georgia,  who  was  aroused  at  once,  and  came  and  opened  the 
door  for  Zuleime  !  And  all  this  time  the  sound  of  loud  talk, 
high  laughter,  and  wild  snatches  of  song,  as  from  several  ex 
cited  people,  rather  than  from  one,  issued  from  Carolyn's 
chamber.  At  length,  by  the  united  exertions  of  his  wife 
and  daughter,  the  fatigued  and  drowsy  old  gentleman  was 
aroused  and  placed  upon  his  feet,  and  made  to 

"  Understand  a  horror  in  their  words — 
If  not  the  words." 

Re  threw  on  his*  shawl  gown  and  hastened  to  Carolyn's 
door,  which  was  instantly  forced  open. 

And  what  a  sight  met  their  eyes ! 

L  -  There  stood  Miss  Clifton  arrayed  in  her  gorgeous  brida* 
'costume,  looking  gloriously  beautiful,  though  certainly  as  no 
bride  ever  looked  before  !  The  raging  fever  had  given  the 
brightness  and  richness  of  the  carnation  rose  to  her  com 
plexion,  and  imparted  a  supernatural  light  to  her  eyes,  that 
burned  and  flashed,  and  seemed  to  strike  fire  as  they  sprang 
from  one  to  the  other  of  the  intruders,  with  a  mad,  joyous, 
defiant  glance ' 

The  alarm  of  her  father  was  unlimited,  unspeakable  !  Ho 
darted  from  the  room,  and  almost  precipitated  himself  down 
the  stairs  in  his  haste  to  mount  and  dispatch  a  servant  for 
the  family  physician.  And  while  he  was  gone,  Georgia  and 
Zuleime,  by  coaxing  and  humoring  the  phantasy  of  the  poor 
girl,  succeeded  in  undressing  her  and  putting  her  to  bed — 
nhe  still  raving  about  her  marriage,  and  sometimes  breaking 
out  into  a  wild  laugh,  and  once  telling  Georgia  that  she, 
being  a  married  woman,  had  no  right  or  business  to  be  offi 
ciating  as  bridesmaid. 

It  was  near  morning  when  the  doctor  came.  After  exam 
ining  the  state  of  the  patient,  he  pronounced  her  disease  1o 
be  brain  fever,  brought  on  by  over-excitement  of  the  nervoua 
He  wrote  prescriptions,  and  remained  with  her  until 


SUSPENSE.  175 

they  were  administered.  And  then  he  departed  witn  a 
promise  to  return  early  in  the  forenoon. 

Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  was  summoned,  and  lost  nc 
time  in  hastening  to  the  sick  room  of  her  daughter-in-law, 
as  she  chose  to  call  Carolyn. 

For  many  days  the  struggle  between  life  and  death  went 
on,  and  no  one,  not  even  the  medical  attendant,  was  able  to 
form  an  opinion  as  to  which  power  would  eventually  conquer. 

Mrs.  Clifton  had  taken  her  station  by  the  bedside  of  the 
patient  as  permanent  nurse,  and  she  constantly  refused  to 
yield  her  post  to  any  other  person.  And  it  was  to  her  vigi 
lant  attention,  quick  perceptions,  and  intelligent  treatment, 
that  all  the  family  ascribed  the  recovery  of  the  girl.  For  tho 
crisis  came  and  passed,  and  Carolyn  Clifton  lived. 

But  no  sooner  was  the  patient  pronounced  out  of  danger, 
and  the  excitement  of  anxiety  over,  than  the  nurse  herself 
fell  ill.  And  Mrs.  Clifton,  exhausted,  prostrated,  entered 
her  carriage,  and  was  driven  to  Hardbargain. 


Ho          ARCHER    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ARCHER  CLIFTON'S  SKETCHES. 

The  deepest  sorrow  that  stern  fate  can  bring 

In  all  her  catalogue  of  Buffering, 

An  eating  rust — the  spirit's  direst  pain — 

To  love,  adore — nor  be  beloved  again, 

Or  know  between  you  lies  a  gult  that  ever 

Your  forms,  your  hopes,  your  destinies  must  sever— MRS.  LEWIS. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Clifton  reached  home — leaning  on  the 
arm  of  her  maid,  she  walked  up  stairs  and  entered  her  son's 
deserted  room,  and  when  her  attendant  had  relieved  her  of 
scarf  and  bonnet,  she  lay  down  upon  his  lounge,  and  sent 
Henny  for  Kate  Kavanagh.  In  less  than  h«ilf  an  hour  Kate 
entered.  And  the  lady  turned  to  her  and  said — 

"  Catherine,  my  dear,  I  must  take  you  into  m'y  confidence — 
yes,  and  into  other  people's,  too,  whether  they  approve  it  or 
not.  Draw  Archer's  writing-desk  up  here  to  the  side  of  the 
lounge.  I  want  you  to  write  a  letter  to  him.  Catherine's 
brow  crimsoned,  and  she  trembled  very  much  as  she  obeyed. 
"  My  dear  Catherine,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  discreet,  and 
never  speak  of  what  I  am  about  to  entrust  to  you.  I  can 
rely  on  you  ?"  said  the  lady,  interrogatively,  raising  those 
fever-brightened  dark  eyes  to  the  girl's  face.  Catherine 
nodded  quickly,  in  her  usual  way,  w7hen  the  words  would  not 
come.  "  You  see,  my  dear  child,  this  most  unhappy  quarrel 
between  Carolyn  and  Archer,  is  causing  a  great  deal  of  un 
necessary  suffering  to  both — and  Carolyn,  as  the  frailer  of 
the  two,  is  nearly  dying  under  it.  Her  brain  fever  was 
caused  by  it.  And  it  was  as  much  as  Dr.  Barnes  and  my 
self  could  do,  to  bring  her  safely  through  it  with  life  and 
reason.  This  estrangement  between  them  must  not  continue, 
or  she  will  die.  She  is  not  so  strong  as  she  looks  to  be. 
Indoed,  she  is  very  delicate,  like  her  mother.  Archer  is  far 
913  b:s  Western  march  now,  and  cannot  return  of  course ; 


ARCHER    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES.        177 

but  he  must  write  to  her,  and  comfort  her.  I  wish  you  to 
write  and  tell  him  so.  Now,  then,  child,  you  know  the  ob 
ject.  Open  the  desk,  and  lay  out  the  paper,  while  I  try  to 
think  what  I  want  said,  and  how  I  want  you  to  say  it." 
Catherine's  hands  quivered  as  she  turned  down  the  leaf  of 
the  desk,  and  mechanically  laid  the  paper  out  on  the  top. 
"  Just  date  it,  dear  child,  and  then  I  will  tell  you  how  to  be 
gin."  Catherine  dipped  her  pen  in  ink,  and  was  just  about 
to  put  it  to  paper,  when  something  there  caught  and  held  her 
eyes,  and  she  gazed  with  dilating  pupils,  and  trembled  more 
than  ever. 

The  paper  before  her  was  covered  with  a  water-colored^ 
sketch  of  Marguerite,  of  France,  at  the  siege  of  Damietta. 
And  tV  ideal  face  of  the  royal  heroine,  was  the  real  one  of 
the  humble  Catherine  herself.  And  in  the  corner  of  the 
paper  were  the  initials  A.  C.  He  had  taken  her  homely  fea 
tures  as  his  notion  of  those  of  the  heroic  Queen  of  St.  Louis. 
And  as  she  gazed,  her  heart  shuddered  with  a  strange,  wild 
emotion  of  blended  wonder,  joy  and  remorse.  The  nature 
of  the  maiden  was  becoming  vaguely  intelligible  to  herself. 

And  Mrs.  Clifton  did  not  see  her  trance,  but  lay  upon  the 
sofa  very  weary,  with  her  hands  pressed  upon  her  temples, 
trying  to  settle  in  what  manner  she  should  address  her  son 
upon  this  delicate  subject.  And  Catherine  forgot  everything 
in  the  sketch  before  her,  and  the  tumultuous,  blissful,  painful 
emotions  it  excited.  An  abyss  was  suddenly  thrown  open 
in  the  depths  of  her  heart,  whose  existence  was  unsuspected 
till  now.  JVbiy  was  she  sorry  that  the  marriage  between 
Archer  Clifton  and  his  cousin,  was  broken  off — by  mutual 
consent  ?  She  tried  very  earnestly  to  feel  sorry,  for  she  be 
lieved  it  her  duty  to  be  so.  She  forced  herself  to  remember 
Carolyn's  illness,  and  Archer's  own  suffering,  in  consequence 
of  the  estrangement  between  them.  But,  oh  !  there  lay  that 
picture  before  her  eyes,  with  her  own  plain  face  idealized, 
glorified  up  to  a  high,  pure,  divine  beauty,  such  as  it  had 
never,  even  in  her  highest,  holiest,  most  inspired  moods,  pos 
sessed.  And  a  voice  from  her  profound  heart  whispered — 
"  Oh,  yes,  and  he  could  make  me  really  beautiful  and  glori 
ous  as  his  ideal  there — for  he  could  make  me  good,  and  ghd, 
and  great  beyond  whatever  I  could  make  myself — if  ho 
chose  !'•  She  reproached  her  heart  severely  for  its  seduo 


178          ARCHEE    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES. 

tive  whisper.  She  offered  up  a  silent  prayer  to  God  to  for 
give  Jier,  and  save  her  soul  from  secret  sin.  She  called  her 
self  foolish,  presumptuous,  treacherous.  But,  oh !  in  spita 
of  all  these,  would  sparkle  up  from  the  depths  of  her  spirit, 
sprays  of  gladness,  as  if  there  had  suddenly  sprung  within 
an  everlasting  fountain  of  joy.  Yet  again  she  blamed  her 
self  most  bitterly.  She  repeated  that  despairing  complaint 
or  confession  of  David — "The  heart  is  deceitful  above  nil 
things,  and  desperately  wicked."  She  almost  realized  rs 
truth.  She  silently  cried  to  God  to  enter  her  heart,  and  «x 
pel  its  secret  sin. 

"Well,  child!  are  you  ready!"  inquired  Mrs.  Clifton, 
withdrawing  her  hands  from  her  temples,  and  looking  towards 
the  entranced  girl.  Kate  did  not  hear  or  see,  her  soul  and 
senses  were  absorbed  in  the  subject  before  her.  Yet  she  did 
not  think  or  hope  about  the  future.  It  was  the  present,  the 
present  that  absorbed  her  heart,  despite  of  will,  resistance 
and  conscience. 

"  Kate  !  are  you  asleep  or  in  a  trance  ?"  asked  the  lady, 
gazing  at  her. 

The  maiden  started,  and  blushed  deeply. 

"Catherine!  what  are  you  thinking  of?"  she  repeated, 
king  her  dark  eyes  upon  the  girl,  until  they  seemed  to  burn 
ffito  her  soul. 

Kate  looked  guilty  and  bewildered,  recovering  herself  by 
an  effort,  and  answered,  almost  at  random — 

"  This  is  not  letter  paper,  jiadam,  it  is  Bristol  board." 

"  Oh,  well !  there  is  writing  paper  in  the  other  department 
of  the  desk,  my  child,  get  it  out." 

Kate  examined  the  contents  of  the  desk,  and  then  re 
plied — 

"  There  is  no  letter  paper  here,  whatever,  Mrs.  Clifton." 

«  What  are  those  ?" 

"  Only  card  boards  and  sketches,  madam." 

"  Sketches,  That  is  just  like  Archer,  to  keep  his  sketches 
in  his  writing  desk.  His  writing  material  will  no  doubt  be 
found  in  his  portfolio.  But  let  me  see  those  sketches,  Cathe 
rine  ;  I  have  not  seen  them  yet,  and  they  will  be  something 
new  to  me — almost  like  a  recent  letter  from  Archer.  I  like 
to  look  over  his  drawings ;  they  always  mean  something  apart 
their  su'jD'act,  as  it  seems  to  me.  I  often  think  his 


ARCHER    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES.        179 

sketches  form  a  running  commentary,  though  an  involuntary 
one,  on  his  life  and  thoughts  !    Hand  them  to  me,  my  child. ' 

"  These  are  only  old  historical  subjects,"  said  Kate,  witb 
visible  reluctance  to  produce  them. 

"  Pass  them  over  to  me,  my  dear.  If  their  subjects  arc  as 
old  as  the  Chinese  History  of  the  Creation,  they  will  never 
theless  be  eloquent  to  me  of  my  son's  present  mood — of  the 
state  of  his  heart,  and  the  progress  or  the  retrogression  of  his 
mind.  You  cannot  imagine,  Catherine,  the  anxious  curiosity 
of  a  mother  to  catch  furtive  glimpses  of  the  interior  of  that 
heart  she  cannot  always  enter,  and  which  is  often  hidden, 
too,  from  its  possessor!  'We  know  not  what  manner  of 
spirit  we  are  of,'  Catherine.  For  instance,  do  you  know 
your  own  heart  or  mind  ?  In  all  hearts  lie  depths  below 
depths,  never  known  to  the  owner  until  some  earthquake  of 
sorrow,  or  of  passion,  throw  them  open  to  view!  There  are 
in  all  minds  powers  beyond  powers  of  achievement  or  of  en 
durance,  unsuspected  by  their  possessor  until  some  emergency 
calls  them  into  action !  But  give  me  the  drawings,  Kate, 
they  will  refresh  me  like  a  talk  with  Archer." 

Catherine  lifted  them,  en  masse,  and  handed  them  to 
Mrs.  Clifton,  who  took  and  examined  each  separately  and 
leisurely. 

"  Um-m-me,"  she  said,  smiling  gently,  as  she  recognized 
their  subjects  : — "  '  Marguerite  of  France,  at  the  Siege  of 
Damietta,'  {  Joan  of  Arc,  at  Rhiems,'  £  Margaret  of  Anjou, 
at  St.  Albans,'  *  Last  interview  of  Lord  and  Lady  Russel,' 
and  all  these  battle-axe  heroines,  wearing  the  likeness  of  my 
serious,  domestic  Catherine  !  In  truth,  Archer  has  put  you 
through  as  many  characters  and  costumes  as  though  h6  de 
signed  you  for  a  tragic  actress,  in  the  heaviest  line." 

Kate  Kavanagh  did  not  like  that. 

"  But  two  of  these  characters  bear  any  affinity  to  you,  my 
dear.     I  cannot  fancy  any  similitude  between  the  tender  and 
fiery  Marguerite — that  c  falcon-hearted  dove,'  or  her  haughty 
«nd  remorseless  namesake  of  Anjou,  and  my  grave,  gentle 
Catherine.     But  the  high  and  holy  enthusiasm  irradiating 
Joan's  face,  and  the   noble    resignation  of  Lady  Russel* 
countenance,  suit  your  striking  features  very  well.     But 
am  talking  like  a  mediocre  stage  critic.     Captain  Clifton  has 
%  very  high  opinion,  of  you,  my  Catherine.     Pray  try  to 


ISO          ARCHES    CLIFTON'S     SKETCHES. 

merit  iL,  my  dear  girl !"  concluded  the  lady,  with  a  lit  tit 
pardonable  motherly  pride. 

Kate  Kavanagh  looked  down,  and  fingered  the  pens  and 
•wafers,  fcr  she  felt  the  lady's  eyes  gazing  through  and  through 
her — reading  her  very  soul. 

"  By-the-way,  Catherine,  have  you  seen  Captain  Clifton's 
last  work  of  art  ?" 

"  No,  madam."  (I  wonder  why  she  calls  him  "  Captaiu 
Clifton"  to  me — she  never  did  so  before,  thought  Kate.) 

16  It  is  a  highly  finished  miniature  of  Miss  Clifton,  painted 
on  ivory.  lie  had  it  set  in  a  plain  gold  locket,  and  has 
taken  it  away  with  him.  I  saw  him  hang  it  around  his  neck, 
and  lay  it  near  his  heart." 

Catherine  honestly  believed  that  she  was  glad  to  hear  this, 
for  it  seemed  one  more  stay  to  keep  her  thoughts  right. 

"  And  that,  Catherine,  is  one  reason  among  many  others 
I  have,  for  knowing  his  indestructible  love  for  Carolyn.  And 
that  is  why  I  feel  no  hesitation  in  having  this  letter  written, 
to  end  this  foolish  quarrel,  and  to  restore  peace  to  these  two 
unhappy  young  people,"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  looking,  Catherine 
thought,  very  strangely  at  her — so  strangely,  that  the 
maiden  felt  her  cheeks  burn  with  a  vague  sense  of  humiliation. 

She  asked  herself — Could  Mrs.  Clifton  have  read  what  had 
been  passing  in  her  mind  ?  Well !  if  so — that  was  anothci 
band  to  bind  her  thoughts  to  the  right. 

"  Now,  then,  to  your  task,  my  child.  You  will  find  paper 
in  Captain  Clifton's  portfolio."  She  spoke  gently  as  ever  to 
Kate,  but  still  called  her  son  "Captain  Clifton,"  as  if  to 
widen  the  distance  between  them. 

Kate  felt  troubled  at  this,  and  then  took  herself  to  task  foi 
a  state  of  mind  so  morbidly  acute  to  impressions,  that  she 
noticed  everything,  even  that  trifle.  She  searched  and  found 
the  writing  materials  in  the  portfolio,  and  went  to  work  and 
wrote,  from  Mrs  Clifton's  dictation,  a  letter,  full  of  gentle 
rebuke,  and  kind,  motherly  counsel,  to  Archer  Clifton.  And 
all  to  the  end  that  he  should  write  immediately,  and  recon 
cile  himself  to  Carolyn,  who  was  extremely  ill,  and  whom  hia 
mother  felt  assured,  she  said,  that  he  must  be  most  anxious 
to  propitiate.  The  letter  was  sealed  and  dispatched,  and 
the  lady,  thoroughly  worn  out,  and  leaning  upon  the  arm  of 
Catherine,  sought  her  own  bed-chamber. 


ARCHER    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES.        181 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Clifton  was  so  weary  that,  sha 
could  only  leave  her  bed-chamber  to  lie  upon  the  sofa  in  tli3 
shady  parlor,  where  she  could  be  at  hand  to  direct  the  opera 
tions  of  her  house  servants — now  engaged  in  cutting  out  and 
making  up  the  Fall  clothing  for  the  negroes.  Catherine 
came  early  to  assist  in  this  onerous  task.  It  was  in  the 
afternoon  while  the  lady  was  still  reclining  on  the  sofa,  and 
Catherine  standing  at  a  work-table  basting  a  linsey-woolsey 
frock-body — when  a  horse  was  heard  to  gallop  up  into  the 
yard,  a  man  to  jump  off  and  hasten  up  the  steps  of  tlie  piazza, 
and  the  instant  after,  old  Mr.  Clifton  entered  the  parlor, 
looking  very  much  flurried  and  alarmed. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  I  hope  Carolyn  is  no  worse  ?" 
asked  the  lady,  anxious,  yet  calm. 

"  No  !  Yes  !  A  great  deal  better  of  course  since  the  turn 
last  night !  Most  malignant  form  of  the  disease,  and  grow 
ing  rapidly  worse  ev^ry  hour.  /  tell  you  it  is  !  The  doctor 
affirms  it !" 

Mrs.  Clifton  gazed  at  him  in  a  sort  of  self-possessed  per 
plexity. 

"  She  has  got  the  small-pox,  madam." 

«  The  small-pox !" 

"  Yes,  madam,  the  confluent  small-pox,  in  its  worst  form.' 

"  You  astonish  me !  I  trust — I  believe  you  are  mis 
taken!" 

"  No — I  wish  to  Heaven  I  was !  No,  madam  !  Doctor's 
opinion !" 

"  Why,  how  on  earth.  Sit  down,  Mr.  Clifton  !  Kate,  my 
dear,  wheel  that  arm-chair  around." 

Catherine  obeyed,  and  the  old  gentleman  sank  among  its 
soft  cushions,  and  took  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  and  wiped 
bis  face. 

"  How  on  earth  could  she  have  got  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clifton. 

"  Ah  !  Lord  Almighty  knows  !  Came  spontaneously,  I  do 
suppose !  You  noticed  those  two  pimples  that  appeared 
upon  her  forehead  after  the  crisis  of  her  fever  passed  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  thought  nothing  of  them." 

"  Nor  did  we  at  the  time.  But  at  any  rate,  that  was  tho 
first  appearance  of  the  eruption — little  as  we  guessed  it  at  tho 
time.  You  see,  she  naturally  began  to  grow  better  when 
this  otlf  M  disease  began  to  break  out,  I  suppose.  Indeed.  J 


182          ARCHER    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES 

have  no  doubt  it  was  the  coming  of  the  small-pox,  that  ar 
rested  the  fatal  termination  of  the  brain  fever.  Well,  you 
see,  last  night  after  you  had  left  her  so  much  better,  we  en 
trusted  her  to  the  care  of  Zuleime,  who  did  not  seem  to  be 
so  much  worn  out  with  watching  as  the  rest  of  us.  So  Zu 
leime  sat  up  with  her  ;  and  she  tells  me  that  before  midnight 
her  face  was  sprinkled  all  over  with  those  pimples.  And 
this  morning,  when  I  first  saw  her — "  The  old  man's  voice 
broke  down  for  a  moment.  "  Oh  !  it  was  dreadful !  Her 
beautiful,  fair  face,  neck,  bosom,  arms,  all  covered  over  with 
that  horrible  eruption  !  It  had  all  run  together  in  one  mass. 
We  sent  off  to  hasten  the  arrival  of  the  doctor,  who,  when 
he  came,  pronounced  the  disease  to  be  confluent  small-pox. 
Oh,  it  is  horrible  !  horrible,  even  if  her  life  be  spared!  Dis 
figured  for  life  !  What  a  fate  for  a  woman  !  I  drove  Zuleime 
out  of  the  room  against  her  will — for  she,  dear,  generous 
girl,  wished  to  stay  and  tend  her  sister.  Georgia  told  me  at 
breakfast,  that  she  had  just  got  a  letter  from  her  father,  who 
was  ill — and  that  she  must  have  the  carriage  to  go  to  Rich 
mond.  She  did  not  show  me  the  letter,  for  she  made  haste 
and  started  almost  immediately.  Everything  falls  out  disas 
trously  at  once.  Now,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  cannot  procure 
a  nurse  to  that  disease,  for  love  or  money,  in  this  neighbor 
hood.  Advise  me  what  to  do.  The  necessity  is  so  urgent!" 

Mrs.  Clifton  was  now  sitting  up,  supporting  her  head  upon 
her  hand,  and  essaying  her  strength. 

"  I  must  go  back,  and  nurse  Carolyn  myself." 

"  You !  Now,  never  suppose,  my  dear  sister,  that  I  have 
been  hinting  for  you  to  return  and  finish  killing  yourself  for 
us  !  I  would  not  permit  it,  if  you  wished  it  ever  so  much  ! 
I'll  lock  and  bar  the  doors  and  windows,  to  keep  you  out, 
first.  But  think  and  counsel  me  as  to  the  best  thing  to  be 
done,  There  is  no  one  at  home  but  Zuleime — and  even  if  I 
were  willing  she  should  risk  taking  the  dreadful  disease,  she 
is  so  7ery  young  and  inexperienced  that  I  should  be  afraid  to 
trust  her  sister's  safety  in  her  hands.  But  I  am  not  willing 
that  she  should  run  any  risk  to  herself — that's  flat.  But 
what's  to  be  done  ?" 

"  There  is  not  a  servant  on  your  plantation,  or  on  thia 
farm,  fit  to  be  trusted  in  such  a  case.  I  must  go  and  take 
wro  of  mj  daughter  myself!" 


ARCHER    CLIFTON'S    SKETCHES.        183 

"  D — d  if  you  shall,  ma'am  !  I'll  bar  my  doors  and  win 
dows  against  you,  first,  I  tell  you !  Why,  in  your  weak  state, 
it  would  be  suicide  !" 

The  lady  maintained  her  purpose  against  Mr.  Clifton's  ve 
hement  opposition,  and  her  calm  persistence  must  have  con 
quered,  but  Kate  Kavanagh  mildly  interposed,  by  saying — 

"  Let  me  go." 

"  You  !  exclaimed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Clifton,  in  a  breath. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  not  a  bad  nurse.  I  have  had  considerable 
experience  with  sick  people." 

"  But — you've  never  had  the  small-pox — you're  not  the 
least  marked!"  said  Mr.  Clifton. 

"  No,  sfr,  I  have  never  had  that  disease  !" 

;<  And  you  are  willing  to  risk  taking  it?" 

"  Yes,  sir  !" 

"  What !  and  you  a  young  girl !  Ain't  you  afraid  of  catch 
ing  it,  and  having  your  face  spoiled  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  afraid  of  contracting  it." 

"  Why  that  is  a  plain  contradiction  of  yourself ;  you  say 
you  are  willing  to  risk  it,  and  afraid  of  catching  it.  I  do  not 
Understand  you  at  all.'- 

"  Catherine  is  so  simply  truthful  and  straightforward  !'•' 
Said  the  lady,  smiling  ;  <c  she  means  that  she  is  perfectly  con- 
gcious  of  the  extent  of  the  danger  of  contagion,  but  that  she 
thinks  it  her  duty  to  brave  it,  nevertheless  !  Is  not  that  it, 
my  dear?  But.  Catherine,  much  as  we  thank  you  for  your 
generous  self-devotion,  we  must  not  permit  you  to  think  of 
going.  I  must  do  that,  for  I  have  had  the  disease.  If  you 
were  to  persist  in  your  purpose,  my  dear  girl,  you  would 
almost  certainly  get  the  small-pox,  and  then  your  life,  or  at 
the  very  least,  your  beauty,  would  be  sacrificed." 

"  Beauty!" — If  I  had  it  and  were  to  lose  it,  dear  lady, 
there  is  no  one  to  care  for  it !" 

"  Yes,  1  should  care  for  it,  my  Kate,"  said  the  lady,  putting 
her  arm  around  the  girl's  waist,  and  drawing  her  closer. 

'*  In  fine,  my  good  girl,  you  shall  not  go  if  you  are  afraid  ' 
That's  certain!"  said^Mr.  Clifton. 

•e  Oh,  sir,  that  would  not  interfere  with  the  faithful  dis 
charge  of  my  duties  as  nurse.  You  had  best  let  me  go,  and 
go  ai  once,  sir !  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost,  surely.  Is  any 
tompctent  person  with  Miss  Clifton  nowj  fjir  v> 


184          ARCHER     CLTFTON'S     SKETCHES. 

"  No  one  but  a  colored  woman,  and  1  really  must  hurry 
back.  And,  so  if  you  really  do  feel  disposed  to  go,  my  dear 
girl, — is  she  a  good  nurse,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?" 

"  Excellent,  sir !  But  indeed  I  do  not  like  her  exposing 
herself  in  my  stead.  I  should  not  permit  her  to  do  it,  indeed, 
if  my  power  seconded  my  will,"  added  the  lady,  sinking 
back  fatigued  upon  her  sofa  cushions. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  was  evidently  inclined  to  accept  Kate's 
services.  Mrs.  Clifton  was  obliged  to  yield, — more  to  the 
weakness  that  overpowered  her  frame  than  to  the  arguments 
set  forth  by  Catherine.  It  was  settled,  then,  that  Kate 
should  go.  And  she  quickly  put  on  her  little  straw  bonnet 
and  black  silk  scarf,  and  entered  the  gig  that  the  old  gentle- 
borrowed  from  the  lady  to  convey  the  girl  to  CliftoD. 


THE     DISCIPLINE     OF     AFFLICTION. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   DISCIPLINE   OF   AFFLICTION. 

When  through  the  deep  waters  T  call  thee  to  §6 
The  rivers  of  wo  shall  not  thee  overflow, 
For  I  will  l>e  with  thee  thy  troubles  to  bless, 
And  sanctify  to  thee  thy  deepest  distress. 

When  through  fiery  trials  thy  pathvvav  shall  lie, 
My  grape  all -sufficient  shall  be  thy  supply; 
The  flame  shall  not  hurt  thee,  1  only  design, 
Thy  dross  to  consume  and  thy  pold  to  refine. 

PARAPHRASE  FROM  SCP  j>ifiu». 

IIIE  mansion-house  at  White  Cliffs  was  all  but  desert  jd 
Hie  very  house-servants,  pretty  mulatto  girls,  more  afraic' 
of  destroying  their  good  looks  than  losing  their  lives,  had 
retreated  to  their  own  dens,  feigning  illness  as  an  excuse  to . 
keep  out  of  the  reach  of  contagion.  Catherine  was  intro- » 
duced  at  once  into  the  sick  room.  Thajb  sick  room !  What 
mind  *an  conceive,  or  what  pen  sAow/tTUescribe  it.  Only 
those  who  have  nursed  a  patient  through  that  worst  form 
of  the  most  loathsome  pestilence,  can  realize  its  revolting 
horrors.  To  see  any  human  being  looking  as  the  once  beau 
tiful  Carolyn  now  looked.  Her  very  features  almost  oblite 
rated,  while  — —  fill  up  the  pause,  you  who  have  seen  the 
horrors  of  that  pest.  It  was  worse  than  any  form  of  illness 
— it  was  worse  than  death  and  decay.  Disgust  almost  over 
mastered  pity,  and  Catherine  turned  away,  shuddering  witb 
sickness  of  body  and  soul.  Old  Mr.  Clifton  cast  one  ago 
nized  look  upon  the  ruin,  and  unable  to  bear  the  sight, 
rushed  from  the  room.  Catherine  turned  to  her  duty.  The 
wretched  patient  was  tossing  about  in  hitih  fever,  and  tearing 
her  arms  and  bosom  under  the  intolerable  irritation.  That 
work  of  destruction  must  be  stopped  first  Catherine  knew. 
Catherine  caught  her  right  hand,  and  it  took  all  her  strength 
tc  hold  that  Laud,  whose  flesh  seemed  as  if  it  would  drop  off, 


186          THE      DISCIPLINE      OP      AFFLICTION 

cuider  the  pressure,  while  she  secured  it  to  the  bedstead. 
Then  she  captured  the  other  dashing,  tossing  hand,  and  con 
fined  it  in  the  same  wanner.  And  then  she  looked  at  the 
state  of  her  own  palms.  Oh,  offensive  duty !  No  wonder, 
she  thought,  that  the  beautiful  Georgia  had  fled  to  Richmond, 
and  the  two  pretty  house-maids  were  extremely  ill  in  their 
attic  !  Had  she  a  wish  to  follow  their  example  ?  No— for 
now  all  selfish  fears  were  lost  in  deep  compassion  for  the 
poor,  forsaken  wreck  of  beauty,  that  lay  there  at  her  mercy. 
She  returned  to  her  duty.  She  administered  to  her  patient 
an  opiate,  to  soothe  her  restlessness.  Took  a  sponge  and 
tepid  water,  and  thoroughly  cleansed  the  surface  of  the  skin, 
and  anointed  face,  bosom  and  arms  with  a  fragrant  emol 
lient,  to  allay  the  intolerable  itching.  She  then  released  her 
hands,  and  laid  them  easily  upon  the  counterpane.  Lastly, 
she  ventilated  and  darkened  the  chamber,  and  took  her  seat 
by  the  bedside,  to  fan  her  patient  while  she  slept.  And  deep 
was  her  satisfaction  in  watching  that  quiet,  refreshing  sleep. 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  lead  my  reader  through  the  dismal 
days  that  followed  in  that  sick  room,  until  the  *:  secondary 
fever,''  the  crisis  of  the  disease,  came  and  passed.  Catherine 
nursed  her  patient  tenderly,  faithfully,  night  and  day.  Ca- 
[rolyn's  life  was  spared,  but  her  peerless  beauty  was  gone 
-  j  forever.  Her  luxuriant,  fair  hair  was  all  lost,  and  her  head 
•-.  ^was  as  bald  and  discolored  as  her  face — and  that! 

~Tn  that  darkened  chamber,  and  in  the  midst  of  physical 
suffering  and  weakness,  Carolyn  had  had  no  opportunity  of 
ascertaining  the  extent  of  the  ravages  the  disease  had  made 
in  her  beauty — if  indeed  she  knew  the  nature  of  the  former, 
or  thought  about  the  latter.  But  as  she  convalesced,  and 
became  able  to  sit  up  in  bed  and  converse,  she  felt  an  in 
valid's  childish  curiosity  to  look  in  the  glass,  and  frequently 
requested  her  gentle  nurse  to  hand  her  one.  But  Catherine, 
dreading  the  effect  of  the  shock,  steadily  refused  to  comply 
with  her  wishes  in  that  respect,  and  perseveringly  kept  the 
room  darkened.  And  the  sick  girl,  too  weak  to  persist  long 
in  any  controversy,  yielded  the  point. 

But  one  day,  while  Catherine  was  at  her  breakfast,  and 
old  Darkey  supplying  her  place  by  the  bedside  of  the  patient, 
Carolyn  said  in  a  tone  that  admitted  of  no  denial,  or  evoa 
uelay — 


THE     DISCIPLINE     OF     AFFLICTION.        187 

"  Darkey,  Land  me  that  band-glass  from  my  dressing- 
table." 

And  tbe  old  woman  impulsively,  thoughtlessly  obeyed 
her,  and  brought  it.  Carolyn  was  propped  up  in  bed.  She 
•took  the  mirror,  gave  one  interested  look  into  it — plucked 
off  her  little  cap — gave  another  hurried  glance — and  utter 
ing  a  long,  low  cry  of  despair,  sunk  back  insensible  upon 
her  pillow. 

Old  Darkey  flew  from  the  chair  to  the  patient,  and  from 
the  patient  to  the  bell,  in  great  trepidation — ringing  pealg 
that  brought  all  the  household  hurrying  in  alarm  to  the  room. 
Old  Mr.  Clifton,  being  nearest  at  hand,  arrived  first.  And 
when  he  saw  and  understood  what  had  happened,  he  seized 
the  hand-glass,  and  threw  it  out  of  the  window,  and  laid  hold 
of  the  heavy  toilet  mirror,  and  sent  it  flying  after.  Then  he 
drove  old  Darkey  from  the  room,  forbidding  her,  for  a  stupid 
and  dangerous  maniac,  ever  to  show  her  face  there  again. 
And  all  this  time,  Catherine,  who  had  entered  so  quietly  that 
no  one  saw  or  heard  her,  was  silently  trying  to  restore  the 
swooning  girl.  As  Carolyn,  with  a  deep  sigh,  opened  her 
eyes,  Kate  motioned  for  every  one  to  leave  the  chamber. 
And  all  noiselessly  withdrew.  Carolyn  shivered  and  shud 
dered  several  times,  as  she  raised  her  eyes  appealingly,  des 
pairingly  to  Catherine,  who  was  bending  tenderly  over  her. 
Catherine  thought  it  best  to  answer  that  silent  appeal  by 
speaking  at  once  to  the  point. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Clifton,  you  must  not  think  that  your  face 
will  continue  to  look  anything  like  it  does  now,  for  it  will 
not,  indeed.  For  though  it  is  very  much  discolored,  it  is  not 
much  pitted,  and  the  discoloration  will  wear  off  in  a  few 
days.  And  as  for  your  hair,  Miss  Clifton,  that  will  grow  out 
very  soon,  and  be  even  more  beautiful  and  luxuriant  than  be 
fore,  on  account  of  the  renewal  of  the  skin — so,  dear  lady, 
take  comfort  and  do  not  look  in  the  glass  again  until  you  are 
better."  And  all  this  rme  that  Catherine  spoke  in  this 
gentle  manner,  she  was  bathing  the  girl's  face  and  hands 
with  bay  water,  and  her  tender  touch  was  even  more  soothina 
than  the  sedative  liquid.  Catherine  was  almost  impelled  to 
say — «  Have  patience — bow  to  the  will  of  (rod,  and  try  to 
learn  the  lesson  He  intends  to  teach  in  this."  But  she  felt 
the  hour  had  not  come  for  speaking  such  words.  Chat  she 


1S8  TH£      DISCIPLINE      OF      AFFLICTION. 

herself  must  have  patience  and  wait  for  the  time  when  she 
might  minister  to  her  spiritual  need. 

Up  to  this  period,  Miss  Clifton  did  not  know  who  hernnrse 
was.  She  had  heard  her  called  "  My  dear  child,"  or  "  Mj 
good  girl,"  by  the  physician  and  by  her  father,  and  they  were 
the  only  visitors  to  the  room,  except  old  Darkey,  who  can^  to 
relieve  the  nurse  at  meal  times,  and  who  simply  called  her 
"  Miss."  And  if  once  or  twice  she  had  heard  her  called 
Catherine — still  she  never  imagined  her  to  be  Kate  Kava- 
nagb,  but  some  hired  attendant.  And,  indeed,  in  the  lan 
guor  of  illness  she  thought  nothing  about  it.  A  few  days 
after  this,  however,  when  she  Lad  grown  more  composed  and 
resigned,  and  while  she  lay  watching  Catherine's  quiet  move 
ments  through  the  room,  she  said — 

"  My  dear,  good  girl — my  gentle  nurse — tell  me  your 
T»ame  ?  I  do  pray  sometimes,  and  I  wish  to  know  your  iiame 
that  I  may  ask  (rod  to  bless  you  for  exposing  life  and  health 
and  beauty  for  one  whom  mother,  and  sister,  and  servants 
nil  deserted."  Just  now,  fur  the  first  time,  it  flashed  like 
lightning  through  Kate's  mind  that  all  the  danger  of  infec- 
fion  was  over,  and  that  she  might  now  thank  God  for  preserv 
ing  her  from  contagion.  Yes  !  she  had  forgotten  herself  for 
gome  time  past,  but  now  her  heart  leaped  for  joy  and  grati 
tude,  and  she  thanked  God  before  she  replied  to  Miss  Clif 
ton's  question,  and  said — 

"  My  name  is  Catherine  Kavanagh." 

"  So ! — you  are  Kate  Kavanagh  !  Hoist  up  the  blind. 
Come  to  me.  Let  me  look  at  you,"  said  Miss  Clifton,  rais 
ing  on  her  elbow.  Smiling,  because  unconscious  of  \he 
hidden  meaning  in  her  words,  Catherine  approached  an<?  da* 
down  by  her  bed.  And  Carolyn  took  both  her  hands,  and 

"  Fell  to  the  perusing  of  her  face, 

As  though  she'd  learn  it  off  by  heart." 

She  pored  over  the  broad,  square  forehead,  looking  strong, 
'but  not  beautiful,  for  all  the  bright  chestnut  hair  was  pushed 
carelessly  aside — she  gazed  upon  those  dark  gray  eyes  under 
their  long  black  fringes. — such  deep,  transparent  weUs  of 
darkness  and  light  they  were — she  dwelt  upon  the  beautiful 
lips,  and  then  her  glance  roved  over  the  symmetrical  form. 
And  she  though  she  had  never  seen  ?o  perfect  a  figure.  And 


THE     DISCIPLINE     OP     AFFLICTION.       189 

she  sighed  and  raised  her  eyes  again  to  the  remarkable  coun 
tenance,  with  its  large  features,  pale  and  cadaverous  now  with 
a  long  season  of  confinement,  fatigue  and  loss  of  sleep,  and 
grave  with  thought,  and  earnest  with  deep  feeling.  And  she 
could  not  settle  it  to  her  satisfaction  whether  Kate  Kavanagh 
was  a  sublime  beauty  or  a  fright.  Upon  the  whole,  the  girl 
interested  and  pained  her.  And  she  continued  to  hold  her 
hands  with  a  nervous  grasp,  and  pore  over  her  face  and  form 
as  freely  as  though  she  had  been  only  a  dreadfully  fascinating 
statue — while  Kate  blushed  under  the  infliction,  and  finally 
drew  her  hands  away  and  sat  clown. 

But  every  day  Miss  Clifton's  confidence  in,  and  esteem  fgjL^ 
Kate  Kavanagh,  increased.     And  every  day  Catherine  sought] 
to  draw  her  patient's  soul  to  the  only  true  source  of  light, 
strength  and  consolation  ;  and  to  sanctify  this  terrible  afflic 
tion  to  her  spirit's  good.     The  obligation  to  do  this  pressed  ' 
upon  the  girl's  conscience  heavily,  as  if  it  were  the  hand  of 
God.     It  was  in  vain  that  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  am  nothing 
but  a  weak,  erring  girl.     It  would  be  presumption  in  me  to 
speak.     It  might  be  received  as  impertinence,  and  do  more 
harm  than  good."     Still  the  answer  arose  from  the  depths  of  ( 
her  heart,  saying — "  Speak  the  fitting  words  at  the  fitting  . 
time,  as  they  arise  within  your  mind,  for  they  are  the  inspira-  ' 
tion  of  God's  spirit."     And  wisely,  lovingly,  reverently  she 
Bpoke  them  as  occasion  called  them  forth.     The  right  thing 
was  always   said  at  the  moment  it  was  needed.     "  Words 
spoken  in  season  are  like  apples  of  gold  on  plates  of  silver." 
ftjany  a  willing  but  bungling  Christian  would  have  failed  to  do 
Carolyn  any  good,  for  Miss  Clifton  was  a  very  difficult  subject. 
There  is  nothing  so  hard  of  impression  as  pride  and  scorn  and 
jealousy.     It  was  the  dominion  of  that  infernal  triumvirate 
that  made  Lucifer  an  impracticable  subject  among  the  angels. 
But  Catherine  was  moved  and  guided  by  a  higher  power  than 
herself.     Of  herself  she  dared  say  nothing  on  Divine  sub-  J 
jects.     She  only  spoke  when  strongly,  irresistibly  impelled  | 
to  do  so.     And  her  words  were  blessed  to  her  patient  and; 
sanctified  to  her  own  spirit. 

Catherine  had  a  powerful  coadjutor  in  her  good  work.  It 
was  the  sorrow  in  Carolyn's  heart.  And  all.  who  could  sound 
the  depth  of  that  sorrow  ?  Loving  as  passionately  as  she 
had  loved  '  Sinning  against  that  love  as  cruelly  as  she  had 


190          THE      DISCIPLINE      OF      AFFLICTION. 

sinned !  Punished  for  her  sin  as  terribly  as  she  was  pun 
ished !  And  now  ruined  and  hideous  in  person,  and  wrecked 
and  despairing  in  mind,  to  whom  could  she  cry  in  her  sharp 
agony  hut  to  God  ? — her  Creator  and  Father  ' — Whose  arm 
was  strong  enough  to  lift  her  from  that  horrible  pit  but  God's 
—but  God's  ?  And  the  All-Powerful,  the  All-Merciful,  waa 
helping  her  every  day. 

The  great  strength,  the  great  vitality  of  her  sorrow,  was 
the  thought  of  Archer  Clifton.  Could  she  have  hoped  for  a 
reconciliation  with  him,  however  distant,  all  else  might  have 
been  borne.  But  with  that  death's  head  of  hers,  sueh  joy 
might  never  be  hoped — ought  never  to  be  wished.  No,  she 
was  as  the  leper,  set  apart  from  human  love — at  least  from 
conjugal  and  maternal  love — forever  and  forever  !  This  was 
hard — this  was  well  nigh  intolerable  ! 

f  She  would  no  more  grace  the  saloon  with  her  surpassing 
loveliness — the  pride  of  her  family — the  ornament  of  their 

»  house.  Her  heart  would  no  more  swell  with  exultation,  when, 
on  entering  the  drawing-room,  in  the  full  glory  of  her  peerless 
beauty,  she  would  hear  a  murmur  of  admiration  pass  through 
the  company.  No.  If  she  should  ever  enter  a  saloon  again, 
she  would  make  a  tremendous  sensation,  truly — but  it  would 
be  one  of  astonishment,  pity,  and  perhaps  disgust.  And  that 
thought  was  dreadful,  dreadful  to  the  proud  young  belle  !  But 
oh !  it  was  as  nothing  to  the  feeling  that  her  household  godd 

I  were  broken  and  ruined  forever — that  her  hopes  of  domestic 
happiness  were  gone  forever  !  For  underneath  all  the  pride 

I  and  vanity  and  scorn  of  the  young  belle  had  been  the  woman's 
thought,  the  woman's  hope  of  the  coming  long,  calm  days  oi 
;  wife  and  mother  joy.  Yea,  as  surely  as  under  the  burnished 
satin  boddice  had  beat  the  heart  of  flesh  !  But  all  these  were 
over  now;  the  proud,  vain  aspirations  of  the  belle,  and 'the 
woman's  deeper,  purer  hopes  !  Both  crushed  by  one  fell  blow 
All  was  lost  in  the  world !  Nothing  was  left  but  Heaven1  j 

"  If  God  would  take 
A  heart  that  earth  had  crushed." 

Many  are  driven  by  the  storms  of  life  to  the  Heavenly  Fa 
ther's  bosom.  It  is  for  this  that  the  tempests  of  sorrow  are 
sent,  and  the  sooner  that  Divine  sanctuary  is  sought,  the  bet- 
for,  foi  hard  and  harder  will  beat  the  storm  until  its  end  ia 


THE     DISCIPLINE     CF     AFFLICTION.        191 

answered.  And  too  often  all  is  lost,  or  seems  lost,  before 
we  consent  to  save  ourselves.  With  Carolyn,  all  the  trea 
sures  of  her  youth  were  gone, — health  and  beauty,  love  and 
hope.  Something  like  this  she  breathed  to  Catherine,  in  a 
weak,  despairing  mood, — for  only  in  a  miserably  depressed 
state  of  mind  and  body  would  the  proud  girl  deign  to  com 
plain. 

"  Dear  lady,  do  not  say  so  sadly  that c  all  is  lost — forever 
lost.'  Dear  lady,  nothing  is  ever  lost.  It  is  impossible. 
The  Lord,  in  His  Divine  Wisdom,  may  withdraw  His  gifts, 
but  they  are  not  lost — they  have  gone  into  His  keeping." 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  you  !  My  poor  good  looks,  such 
as  they  were,  are  surely  gone  forever.  Nothing  can  restore 
them  !  And  oh,  Catherine  !  you  do  not  know — you  cannot 
understand  all  the  blessings,  the  hope,  and  the  joy  of  my  life 
fled  forever  !  You  are  a  child — you  do  not  understand  it !" 

"Perhaps  I  do  not,  lady,  and  perhaps  I  do!  Seek  all 
that  you  have  lost  in  God!  He  has  withdrawn  His  gifts, 
your  treasures,  that  He  may  draw  you  to  Himself !  They 
are  safe  in  His  treasure  house.  If  you  have  lost  the  beauty 
of  the  fair  roseate  complexion,  He  can  endow  you  with  a 
higher  beauty,  emanating  from  the  soul.  If  you  have  lost 
human  love,  He  can  satisfy  your  soul  with  the  richness  antf 
fullness  of  Divine  love  that  never  faileth !  And  for  your 
broken  earthly  hopes,  He  can  give  you  the  Heavenly  hope 
that  never  dieth." 

"  Oh  !  but  it  is  the  lost  earthly  hope,  personal  beauty  and 
human  love,  that  were  so  dear  to  me !  So  dear  to  me !"  ex 
claimed  the  poor  girl,  bursting  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"  And  He  can  restore  even  those  !  (  But  seek  ye  first  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven,  and  all  these  things  shall  be  added  to 
you.'  " 

"  Ah,  child !  Nothing  but  a  miracle  could  give  me  back 
dead  happiness.  And  the  days  of  miracles  are  over !" 

"No!  no!  There  is  nothing  in  the  Scripture  to  warrant] 
that  saying.  The  days  of  miracles  are  not  passed.  Until  f 
the  days  of  human  faith  and  Divine  Omnipotence  are  pa.st —  I 
tho  days  of  miracles  are  not  passed.  Anything  that  seem* 
to  me  right  that  I  should  have,  I  will  pray  God — that  if  it ' 
be  right,  He  will  give  it  me — though  it  should  appear  to  my  j 
ignorance  utterly  impossible !"  Then  Catherine  abruptly 


192          THE      DISCIPLINE      OP      AFFLICTION. 

stopped,  fearing  that  she  had  said  too  much.  And  st* 
silently  prayed  for  a  faith  that  should  be  as  far  removed  from 
presumption,  as  from  despair. 

Carolyn  convalesced  very  slowty.  It  was  weeks  before 
she  left  her  bed.  And  then  many  more  weeks  before  she  left 
her  room. 

It  was  a  glorious  day  in  Autumn,  when  she  first  walked 
out  upon  the  lawn,  supported  between  Catherine  and  her 
father.  And  as  soon  as  she  set  foot  upon  the  green  sward, 
sonic  cattle  that  were  browsing  there — by  some  caprice  to 
which  cattle  are  subject — started  off  as  if  seized  by  sudden 
panic,  and  ran  huddling  together  confusedly,  and  precipi 
tating  themselves  towards  the  outer  gate.  And  so  weak  were 
the  poor  invalid's  nerves,  and  so  morbid  her  mind,  that  she 
burst  into  tears,  and  declared  that  the  very  brutes  fled  from 
before  her  face,  as  from  one  less  human  than  themselves ! 
Nor  could  any  argument  of  Mr.  Clifton's  or  of  Catherine's, 
disabuse  her  mind  of  this  absurd  idea.  She  begged  Cathe 
rine  to  take  her  back  to  her  chamber.  And  for  many  weeks 
no  entreaties  could  induce  her  to  leave  it. 

Zuleime  came  freely  to  her  sister  now.  She  had  her  harp 
brought  into  her  room.  And  she  soothed  the  recluse  with 
music  every  day.  And  at  last  Kate  Kavanagh,  who  had 
gradually  merged  from  nurse  into  companion,  added  her  own 
rich,  full-toned  voice  in  accompaniment.  The  Misses  Clifton 
were  both  very  much  surprised  to  see  this  "  gift  of  gracious 
nature"  thrown  away  upon  a  poor  girl,  with  no  hopes  or 
prospects  but  manual  labor  for  her  living.  And  Zuleime, 
who  could  be  thoughtful  and  benevolent  in  the  midst  of 
anxiety  and  sorrow,  proposed  to  give  Catherine  lessons  on  the 
harp.  But  this  was  soon  stopped.  Both  Zuleime  and  Cathe 
rine  perceived  that  the  music,  far  from  soothing,  seemed  to 
irritate  the  invalid.  And  for  this  reason,  Carolyn  had  lost 
her  voice.  She  could  never  sing  again.  And  even  in  speak 
ing,  her  tones  were  harsh  and  rough.  The  harp  was  ban 
ished,  and  books  were  brought.  And  while  Zuleime  worked, 
and  Carolyn  fondled  a  little  King  Charles,  that  had  been 
bought  for  the  childish  invalid,  Kate  read  aloud  to  the  sis 
ters.  And  now  it  was  that  the  world  of  written  poetry 
broke  upon  the  maiden's  delighted  view.  Before  this,  she 
had  never  read  a  line  of  poetry  in  her  life,  except  hymns — 


THE     DISCIPLINE     OF     AFFLICTION.        193 

for  Mrs.  Clifton  had  judiciously  suppressed  all  booss  of  that 
nature.  But  now  the  treasures  of  Milton,  Goldsmith,  and 
Cowper,  were  opened  to  her  ardent  mind  !  Oh,  those  days 
that  followed  the  convalescence  of  Miss  Clifton-  those  even 
ings  after  Carolyn  had  gone  to  rest,  when  she  and  Zuleimo 
would  go  into  the  summer-saloon  and  spend  the  hours  in  mu 
sic  or  poetry,  or  in  talk  as  musical,  and  as  poetic.  Tho&« 
evenings,  spent  with  a  refined,  warm-hearted  girl  like  Zu- 
leime — they  were  unfitting  her  for  her  prospective  hard  lift 
of  coarse  labor  and  coarser  association.  She  felt  that  it  was 
so.  And  she  determined  to  leave.  She  only  waited  until 
Mr.  Clifton  went  to  Richmond  and  brought  back  his  wife. 
And  then  she  bade  them  all  good-bye  and  returned  home — 
not  to  the  farm-house  of  Hardbargain,  but  to  her  brothei 
Carl's  cabin. 

She  needed  to  commune  with  herself,  and  be  still.  She 
wished  to  descend  into  the  unsounded  abysses  of  her  heart, 
and  examine,  though  with  awe,  the  mystery  of  iniquity  that 
in  some  unguarded  hour  had  germinated  there — this  growing 
passion  for  a  man  betrothed  to  another.  No  matter  if  the 
marriage  was  broken  off  for  the  present.  They  loved  each 
other.  And  that  was  the  true  betrothal.  As  for  herself,  she' 
would,  with  the  grace  of  God,  turn  out  this  dangerous  bosom 
guest,  so  divinely  fair  as  to  seem  like  an  angel  of  light  rather 
than  the  tempting  demon  that  it  was !  And  to  do  this  effectu 
ally,  she  must  break  every  tie  that  held  her  to  that  fair  illu 
sive  life  she  had  lately  led.  She  must  forsake  every  associa 
tion  connected  with  her  sin  and  folly.  She  loved  Mrs. 
Clifton — loved  her  first  for  herself  alone,  and  then  as  the 
mother  of — one  whose  name  she  dared  not  now  to  breathe 
even  to  herself.  She  enjoyed  the  congenial  society  and  oc 
cupations  at  White  Cliffs  and  at  Hardbargain.  And  now  she 
was  the  most  welcome  visitor  on  the  list  of  both  families. 
But  she  must  forego  the  privilege  this  gave  her.  More  than 
all,  she  had  enjoyed  her  pleasant  life  at  Hardbargain.  The 
cheerful  housekeeping  cares  she  had  shared  with  its  mistress 
— the  conversations  over  the  pleasant  tea-table  or  the  social 
work-stand — the  books,  the  newspapers,  and  the  evening 
music,  and  the  society  of  the  admirable  Mrs.  Clifton — these 
formed  the  externals,  the  body  of  her  happiness ;  but,  the 
interior,  the  soul  of  her  joy,  was  that  there  was  the  iioiuc  of 


WF      A 


194  THE      DISCIPLINsF      AFFLICTION. 

Archer  Clifton  —  the  place  pervaded  by  his  spirit  !  redolent 
of  him!  But  all  these  must  be  abandoned!  They  might 
have  affinity  for  her  nature,  but  they  did  not  belong  to  her 
.ot  in  life.  And  see  what  they  had  brought  her  to  !  Even 
to  an  insane  passion  for  her  benefactor  !  And  now  it  was 
high  time  she  had  come  to  her  senses  and  self-recollection. 
She  was  a  poor  girl,  of  the  humblest  birth  —  born  in  poverty 
and  destined  to  poverty.  She  must  leave  off  spending  oven- 
ings  with  refin-ed  and  accomplished  young  ladies  in  elegant 
saloons,  if  she  wished  to  do  her  duty  in  that  station  to  which 
l*od  had  called  her.  And  she  must  give  up  the  society  of 
Archer  Clifton's  mother,  if  she  wished  to  forget  him.  And 
«he  must  betake  herself  to  the  coarse,  hard,  but  dutiful  life 
of  her  brother's  cabin. 

Catherine  went  no  more  to  White  Cliffs  or  to  Hardbargain. 
-\nd  when  Mrs.  Clifton  sent  for  hor  to  come  an!  spend  a  day, 
she  returned  a  gentle  answer  that  she  could  not  leave  her 
grandfather. 


THE     BLACK     SEAL.  195 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  BLACK  SEAL. 


Her  eyes  unmoved,  but  full  and  wide, 
Not  once  had  turned  to  either  side — 
Nor  once  did  those  sweet  eyelid*  close, 
Or  shade  the  glance  on  which  they  rose  ; 
But  round  their  orbs  of  darkest  hue, 
The  circling  white  dilated  grew — 
And  there  with  glassy  gaze  she  stood, 
As  ice  were  in  her  curd»ed  blood. — BYROH. 


THE  evening  was  chilly — just  chilly  enough  to  make  the 
ftovelty  of  the  first  fire  of  the  season  a  luxury.  And  so  Zu- 
jeime  had  ordered  a  bright  little  fire  kindled  in  the  parlor, 
and  the  tea-table  set  out  there.  And  she  had  changed  her 
white  muslin  dress  for  a  fine  crimson  poplin  one,  and  began 
to  think  of  the  pleasant  autumn  evenings,  when  all  the  family 
would  gather  around  the  hearth,  with  needle-work  and  books 
and  social  chat.  And,  like  a  child,  she  was  forgetting  the 
threatening  dangers  that  lay  before  her,  and  those  she  loved 
— her  father's  trouble,  Major  Cabell's  expected  arrival, 
Frank's  peril  in  distant  warfare,  the  difficulties  of  her  own 
position — all  were  for  awhile  forgotten,  iu  the  dream  of 
cheerful  fireside  affection  and  comfort,  as  she  moved  about 
the  room,  closing  blinds,  dropping  curtains,  and  wheeling 
easy-chairs  up  near  the  fire,  and  thinking  with  what  a  fine 
smile  of  genial  satisfaction  her  father  would  come  in  and  look 
around  upon  the  change  before  he  dropped  himself  into  that 
largest  easy-chair.  Mr.  Clifton  had  ridden  to  the  village, 
feat  was  expected  back  to  tea.  And  there  sat  the  tea-table, 
a  little  aside,  to  be  clear  of  the  chair,  near  the  fire-place,  and 
radiant  with  snowy  damask  and  shining  silver. 

Carolyn  came  in,  pacing  softly,  slowly,  and  turning  her 

eyes  around  the  room  with  a  look  of  languid  approval,  slid 

ank  intf  an  arm-chair.     Zuleime  went  to  her  immediately, 


106  THE      BLACK       SEAL. 

and  relieved  her  of  the  large  shawl  she  had  worn  through  tnc 
chilly  passages,  and  dosed  her  dressing-gown,  and  settled 
the  lace  border  of  the  delicate  little  cap,  and  placed  the 
softest  cushion  under  her  feet,  and  then  kissed  her  forehead, 
but  did  not  speak.  Carolyn  repaid  her  with  a  silent  look  of 
affection.  Since  the  departure  of  Catherine,  Carolyn  had 
sunk  into  a  sort  of  mute  despondency,  in  spite  of  all  the  care 
and  affection  of  her  sister,  for  it  was  her  moral  nature  that 
needed  help,  and  the  young  Zuleime  could  not 

"  Minister  to  a  mind  diseased  " 

Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  entered,  and  silently  glided  to  her 
seat.  Unconsciously,  Georgia  became  a  dark  and  terrible 
picture.  She  sat  upon  a  low  ottoman,  at  the  corner  of  tha 
fire-place,  her  head  supported  by  her  hand,  and  all  her  glit 
tering  ringlets  falling  like  a  glory  down  each  side  of  her 
darkly  splendid  face.  And  through  that  strong  light  and 
shadow  her  form  palpitated,  her  bosom  heaved  and  fell,  her 
moist  lips  dropped  apart,  and  her  eyes  gleamed  with  a  set, 
steady  fire,  as  though  some  passionate  trance  wrapt  and  spell 
bound  her  soul. 

Zuleime  was  moving  about  the  room,  and  giving  directions 
to  a  servant,  who  had  brought  in  cakes  and  preserves.  Finally 
she  sat  down,  and  took  out  her  knitting — it  was  a  pair  of 
white  lamb's  wool  socks,  for  her  father — and  knitted  whil* 
she  waited.  She  had  not  long  to  wait. 

The  door  swung  open  silently,  and  Mr.  Clifton  entered, 
with  a  newspaper  in  his  hand,  but  looking  so  shocked  and 
troubled,  that  all,  with  one  accord,  raised  their  eyes  in  silent 
inquiry. 

"  Poor  Frank !  poor  Frank !"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  aa 
if  he  was  ready  to  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears. 

"What!— what  of  Frank?"  asked  a  faltering,  gasping 
voice,  which  he  could  not  recognize  as  belonging  to  either  of 
the  three  young  women  present— yet  answered,  mechani' 
cally — 

"  Those  bloody  Redskins  !     Those  ghastly,  horrible  Sava* 
he  cried,  throwing  himself  into  a  chair. 


"  There  —  there  has  been  some  fighting! 
Tell  me  !—  tell  me  !     You  know  what  iV 


Is 


ant  to  know 
ufe*»  exclaimed  Carolyn,  bending  forward. 


THE     BLACK     SEAL.  197 

Callow  and  fierce,  the  eyes  of  Georgia  gleamed  the  terro\  and 
anxiety  she  dared  not  express  ! 

"  Archer  is  safe!"  said  Mr.  Clifton. 

And  the  light  of  a  sudden  joy  flitted  across  Georgia's  dar 
face, — and  Carolyn  sank  back,  with  a  look  of  grateful  relief. 
And  no  one  noticed  Zuleime.     And  no  one  knew  that  she 
had  spoken. 

"  Yes  !  Archer  is  safe !  Thank  God  !  And  a  thousand 
times  thank  God,  that  Archer  is  safe  !  But  Frank  ! — poor 
Frank  !  My  God  what  a  fate  !  Who  shall  tell  his  mother  ?" 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  ! — what  has  happened  to  Mr.  Fair 
fax  "?"  asked  Georgia. 

"  There !  There  !  Read  for  yourself,"  replied  the  old 
man,  getting  up,  and  handing  her  the  paper.  He  did  not 
mean  that  she  should  read  aloud,  perhaps — but  he  forgot— 
he  was  confused  with  trouble. 

And  she  took  the  paper,  and  read  : — "  FROM  THE  INDIAN  1 
FRONTIER  ;    HORRIBLE    MASSACRE    NEAR    FORT 
PROTECTION.— Dispatches   from    our   Western   frontier  | 
bring  the  most  painful  account  of  a  horrible  massacre  of  a  j 
part  of  our  troops  by  the  Indians,  in  the  vicinity  of  Fort 
Protection.     On  Monday,  the  15th  ultimo,  a  small  recon- 
noiterinir  party  left  the  Fort,  under  the  command  of  Lieu 
tenant  Fairfax.     They  had  proceeded  about  a  mile  on  their 
way,  when  they  fell  into  an  ambuscade  of  Indians,  and  were 
cut  to  pieces  in  the  most  shocking  manner.     The  bod}*  of 
Lieutenant  Fairfax,  in  particular,  was  so  horribly  mutilated 
as  to  be  scarcely  recognizable.     The  full  particulars  of  the 
massacre,  given  below,  are  copied  from  the  *  National  Sen 
tinel.'  " 

Then  followed  a  long  account  of  the  catastrophe,  with 
every  revolting  circumstance  detailed  with  horrid  distinctness. 
The  old  man  heard  and  groaned  at  intervals.  Carolyn 
shuddered  and  wept  by  turns.  And  even  Georgia's  voice 
broke  down  for  pity  and  horror.  But  she — the  wife — the' 
widow — she — the  fearfully  bereaved — she  sat  and  listened  to 
all  the  murderous  story.  She  heard  all — all.  How  he  had 
been  set  upon  by  six  or  seven — how  he  had  singly  battled 
with  them,  when  all  his  party  were  lying  dead  around  him — 
how  then  he  tried  to  escape  such  fearful  odds — how  he  was 
felled,  and  dragged  down  frorc  his  horse — the  young, 

Lu    — ^> 


198  THE       BLACK      «EAL. 

warm  beating  heart  was  cloven  through  —  the  fair  hair  tora 
from  the  bleeding  skull—  the  fingers  chopped  off  for^the  sake 
of  the  ring—  Frank  wore  but  one  —  a  simple  gold  ring,  with 
a  coral  set,  that  she  had  taken  from  her  slender  fore  finger, 
and  contrived  to  squeeze  past  the  joint,  and  get  it  comfortably 
upon  his  little  finger.  And  they  had  cut  it  off  in  their  haste 
to  get  it.  How  real  that  trifle  made  the  whole  horror,  that 
might  else  have  seemed  like  a  nightmare!  She  sat  and 
heard  it  all  —  all.  And  no  motion,  no  tear,  no  cry  escaped 
her. 

At  last,  when  the  reading  was  over,  and  they  were  re 
leased  from  the  spell  of  horror,  old  Mr.  Clifton  thought  of 
Zuleime,  and  feared  its  effect  on  her.  He  turned  to  look  at 
her.  At  first  he  saw  nothing  amiss. 

She  sat  so  naturally,  though  still,  with  her  knitting  in  her 
hands,  as  though  only  stopped  for  an  instant,  and  her  face 
turned  in  a  listening  attitude  toward  Georgia,  who  had  ceased 
to  read. 

"  It  is  all  over  —  there  is  no  more  to  hear,  Zuleime,  my 
darling/'  said  the  old  man. 

But  she  did  not  move  or  speak.  She  seemed  to  look  and 
listen  intently. 

"  Zuleime,"  said  her  father  gently. 

She  remained  perfectly  still. 

"  Zuleime.  /"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  louder  tone.  She  did  not 
near. 

"  ZULEIME  !  !"  he  cried,  a  third  time,  going  towards  her, 
Vo  seize  her  shoulder. 

But  he  started  back  in  affright.  They  were  all  gazing  at 
her  now. 


"  r;fy  90<*  •  sne  isJ?K>1J  !"  ejaculated  the  father. 

"_SHels~MAD  !"  exofrimed  Georgia. 

They  gathered  around  her.  She  knew  it  not.  She  sat 
there  as  if  frozen  into  that  attitude  —  her  face  white  and 
hard  —  her  lips  bloodless  and  stiff,  and  her  eyes  still  fixed 
towards  the  spot  from  which  Georgia  had  been  reading,  but 
beyond  it  —  beyond  it  —  into  the  far  distance,  as  if  fascinated 
by  some  spectacle  there  of  .unutterable  horror! 

"  Zuleime  !  what  are  your  looking  at  ?     Speak  to  me,  my 

ild  !"  cried  her  father,  in  great  distress. 

He  might  a*  ^ell  have  expected  a  statue  to  speak. 


THE     BLACK     SEAL.  199 

/  Carolyn  took  the  knitting  away,  which,  through  all  this, 
had  dangled  between  her  stiff,  unconscious  fingers.  Georgia 
rubbed  her  hands.  Carolyn  bathed  her  face.  The  old  man 
cried  to  her — all  in  vain  !  They  might  as  well  have  performed 
these  offices  for  the  dead. 

They  lifted  her  up,  and  laid  her  on  a  sofa — her  limbs 
hanging  helplessly,  like  those  of  a  dead  or  swooning  girl. 
But  she  was  neither  dead  nor  swooning.  Wherever  they 
moved  her,  her  eyes  were  still  fixed,  in  that  bright,  burning, 
horrible  stare,  upon  the  distance,  as  though  the  vision  of  the 
ghastly  spectacle  that  had  been  conjured  up  before  her 
imagination,  followed  her  wherever  she  was  turned. 

They  took  her  up  stairs,  undressed  and  put  her  to  bed. 
All  night  long  she  lay  in  the  same  state. 

In%the  morning  there  was  no  change,  except  that  the 
muscles  of  the  face  had  fallen,  the  cheeks  sunken,  the  chin 
dropped,  and  tha^concentnitejl^  i^ 

was  more  burning"  brign~t  thanjjver.  It_was.jis  though  a 
burning  soul  was  consuming  the  unconscious  flesh  to  death. 
Or  as  if  a  body  were  turning  to  dust  and  ashes  with  the  spirit 
still  imprisoned  in  it. 

"  She  is  sinking,  and  must  die,  unless  she  can  be  moved 
to  tears,"  said  the  doctor. 

But  what  should  move  her  to  tears  ?  Was  there  anything 
on  earth  that  she  could  weep  for  now  ?  Her  old  gray  father 
had  knelt,  weeping,  by  her  bedside,  and  torn  his  silver  hair 
in  anguish,  without  causing  a  single  eyelash  to  quiver  over 
that  fixed,  burning  eye !  What  should  make  her  weep  * 
Plaintive  music  ?  She  could  not  be  made  to  hear  it !  The 
very  songs  that  she  and  Frank  had  sung  together  ?  The 
sound  was  drowned  in  the  groans  from  that  scene  of 
blood ! 

Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  had  come  over,  but  though 
ehe  was  a  woman  of  great  skill  and  experience,  all  her  efforts 
failed  to  rouse  the  girl  from  that  fearful  trance,  which  seemed 
likely  to  end  in  death, 

"  Send  for  Catherine !  If  any  one  in  the  world  can  do 
her  good  now,  it  will  be  Catherine.  There  is,  besides,  a 
Free-Masonry  between  girls  of  the  same  age,  that  makes 
them  instinctively  understand  each  other.  If  a  child  were 
wa  stupor,  I  should  ce  Mainly  send  its  favorite  playmate — 


200  THE      BLACK      SEAL. 

another  child— as  the  most  likely  being  to  rouse  it,"  said 
Mrs.  Clifton. 

"Ah!  My  Lord! — this  is  worse  than  any  stupor!  I 
wish  to  Heaven  she  would  fall  into  a  stupor,"  replied  the 
father. 

"  I  know  it !  For  her  mind  is  not  dulled,  but  seeing 
wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch,  and  intent  upon  some  im 
aginary  vision  of  honor.  She  must  be  brought  out  of  it. 
She  must  he  subdued.  Send  for  Catherine." 

Mr.  Clifton  went  himself  in  the  gig,  to  bring  the  kind 
girl. 

When  Catherine  arrived,  and  while  she  stood  by  the 
side  of  the  stricken,  insensible  girl,  Mr.  Clifton  said  to 
her — 

"  You  see,  my  dear  child  Zuleime  seems  to  have  been  very 
much  attached  to  this  poor  young  man.  And  the  news  of 
his  horrid  death  was  broken  to  her  suddenly,  and  it  has  just 
thrown  her  into  this  state !  Look  at  her  eyes !  What  do 
you  think  they  see — in  imagination,  I  mean?" 

"  They  see  that  scene  of  massacre — they  see  the  death  of 
her  lover,"  said  Kate,  looking  pitcously  at  her  friend — (for 
Zuleime  was  her  friend) — and  brooding  deeply  over  some 
idea. 

"  The  doctor  says  she  must  die  if  she  cannot  be  made  to 
weep  !  Oh,  Katey,  ^ny  dear,  dear  girl !  If  you  can  only 
make  her  weep !  I  will  give  you — I  was  going  to  say — I 
would  give  you  half  of  all  I  have  in  the  world  !  Come,  try  ' 
That's  a  good  girl !  You  girls  all  know  each  other's  little 
fool-secrets  and  love  nonsenses.  Come,  try.  Do  you  want 
to  be  left  alone  with  her  ?" 

Kate  shook  her  head  in  that  quick  way  usual  to  her  when 
strong  feeling  kept  her  silent — but  she  added — 

"  Give  me  her  keys." 

The  old  man  seemed  surprised,  but  looked  about  and  dis 
covered  the  required  articles  in  her  little  work-basket,  and 
handed  them  to  Kate. 

"  I  only  want  to  search  and  see  if  I  cannot  find  some 
thing  that  was  his — some  little  token  or  keepsake,  you 
know." 

The  old  man  took  his  station  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  while 
Kate  pursued  her  se^ch.  She  knew  what  she  was  looking 


THE     BLACK     SEAL.  2Ul 

*or,  it  was  a  curl  of  fair  hair.  She  had  caugh*  a  glimpse  of 
ft  once — when  Zulcimc  had  opened  a  box  in  he1*  drawer,  and 
had  immediately  shut  it  again  with  a  deep  blush.  And  now 
she  knew  whose  hair  it  was ;  and  that  the  sight  of  it  would 
bring  tears  to  those  burning  eye-balls,  and.  consciousness  to 
that  frenzied  brain.  She  found  it.  She  could  have  wept 
herself  as  she  raised  it  from  its  little  hiding  place.  She  took 
it  to  the  bedside — put  her  hand  gently  over  those  glaring 
eyes  to  darken  them,  and  break  the  spell  if  possible,  and 
then  lifting  her  hand  off  again,  she  held  up  the  lock  of  hair 
by  the  end,  letting  it  drop  into  a  fair  shining  ringlet  before 
the  eyes  of  the  girl,  as  she  said — 

"  Zuleime,  do_you  know  whose  hair  this  is  ?" 

The  poor  scathed  "eye-balls  fixed  upon  it — softened — 
melted  from  their  searching  glare — a  change  came  over  her 
face — she  extended  her  hand,  and  caught  the  tress  as  if  fear 
ing  to  lose  it,  and  pressed  it  with  both  hands  to  her  hearc. 
Then  her  bosom  began  to  heave  convulsively,  as  with  a  great 
coming  agony.  Catherine  caught  her  up,  for  she  seemed 
about  to  suffocate.  It  was  only  the  coming  of  the  flood  of 
tears — yes,  the  flood,  for  she  fell  upon  Catherine's  sustaining 
bosom,  and  sobbed  and  wept — such  a  deluge  of  tears,  that 
the  girl's  dress  was  dripping  wet,  and  it  grew  a  wonder  where 
so  much  carne  from.  And  Catherine's  heart  was  smitten, 
and  she  wept,  too — wppt  till  she  grew  so  weak  she  could 
scarcely  sustain  her  burthen.  And  then  old  Mr.  Clifton 
came  around  and  relieved  her,  taking  Zuieime  into  his  arms 
and  laying  her  head  against  his  shoulder,  saying- 

"  There,  cry !  Cry  on  its  father's  neck,  as  much  as  it 
wants  to!  It  shall  cry  its  fill,  poor  thing!  poor  little  heart 
broken  thing !"  • 

And  she  did,  abundantly ! — but  pressed  and  kissed  her 
father's  neck  the  while  for  his  tender  words.  This  melted 
down  the  old  man's  heart  so  that  he  said — 

"  They  shan't  plague  you  !  None  of  them  shall !  Charley 
Caball  shan't  come  here  to  trouble  you  !  T/iat  he  shan't. 
Come  what  will,  you  shan't  be  forced  to  marry  him !  No, 
no,  my  darling — my  poor  little  heart-broken  darling,  you 
shan't !  I'l1  «ce  him  in  perdition  first !  And  myself,  too  ! 
There,  don't  stop !  Cry  it  all  out  on  father's  neck !  Don't 
«tcp  Catoh  your  breath  and  begin  again !  That's 


202  THE      BLACK      SEAL. 

That's  a  good  girl !  Oh,  she'll  cry  a  plenty  this  bout.  Once 
I  couldn't  bear  to  hear  women  cry!  It  was  because  I  did 
not  know  that  if  the  grief  was  not  cried  out,  it  would  stay  in 
the  heart  and  burst  it !  I  will  never  try  to  stop  a  woman 
from  crying  again.  Cry  on,  my  poor  little  thing !"  And  so 
most  tenderly,  but  half-childishly,  the  old  man  talked,  and 
petted,  and  cooed  over  her. 

Catherine  slipped  down  stairs  to  prepare  tea  and  toast. 

When  she  came  back,  she  found  Zuleime  lying  back  upon 
the  pillow  exhausted,  but  composed,  and  still  pressing  the 
little  lock  of  hair.  Catherine  set  down  the  little  waiter,  and 
took  a  bowl  and  napkin  and  washed  her  face  with  cologne 
and  water,  and  then  brought  the  cup  of  tea. 

Zuleime  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

Catherine  stooped  and  whispered. 

"  For  your  father's  sake,  dear.     Look  at  him." 

Zuleime  raised  her  eyes  to  the  old  Fein's  grief-worn,  anxious 
facej  and  then  extended  her  hand  for  the  cup,  and  drank  the 
tea. 

While  Zuleime  was  resting  in  Catherine's  arms  and  drink 
ing  the  tea,*  a  knock  was  heard  at  tho  door,  and  when  Mr. 
Clifton  opened  it,  a  servant  appeared  ami  told  him  that  Major 
Cabell  had  arrived,  and  wished  to  spea>  with  him. 

And  the  old  gentleman  set  his  teeth,  a^»i  \n*iu*i  .*W 


MK.    CLIFTON'S    RESOLUTION.          203 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

MR.  CLIFTON'S  RESOLUTION. 


Full  many  a  storm  on  this  gray  head  has  beat 

And  now'on  my  high  station  do  I  stand, 

Like  the  tired  watchman  in  rocked  tower, 

Who  looketh  for  the  hour  of  his  release. 

I'm  sick  of  worldly  broil,  and  fain  would  be 

With  those  who  strive  no  more. — JOANNA  BAILIE. 


"  WELL,  old  two  pence  ha'penny,  how  d'  y'  do  ? 
all  well  at  last,  eh  ?"  said  Major  Cabell,  advancing  to  meet 
Mr.  Clifton,  as  he  entered  the  parlor. 

The  old  gentleman  extended  his  hand  gravely,  and  wel 
corned  his  visitor  to  White  Cliffs.  Then  he  rung  the  bell  anc 
ordered  refreshments,  but  Major  Cabell  declined  the  latter 
and  inquired  after  the  ladies. 

"  My  family  are  all  in  affliction  !  D — n  it,  Charley,  you 
know  it !  Curse  that  Indian  war  !  My  dear  Carolyn  scarcely 
recovered  from  the  effects  of  that  loathsome  pestilence,  be 
fore  here  comes  the  news  of  that  hideous  massacre  of  poor 
Fairfax  and  his  men,  and  just  overwhelms  my  little  Zu 
leime!" 

"  Zuleime  ?  My  dear  little  wife  ?  I  trust  that  nothing  has 
been  permitted  to  afflict  her?" 

"  The  news  of  Fairfax's  horrible  death  shocked  her  into 
a  sort  of  appalled  ecstacy,  which  lasted  for  twelve  hours ! 
And  from  which  she  was  only  roused  to  break  into  such  tears 
and  sobs,  as  I  never  heard  before,  and  hope  never  to  hear 
again." 

The  old  man  wished  to  prepare  Major  Cabell,  gradually,  for 
the  announcement  he  intended  to  make  of  the  marriage  about 
to  be  broken  off.  He  wished  to  touch  his  heart,  to  excite 
ms  sympathy,  to  awaken  his  generosity.  He  even  hoped- 
for  people  will  have  wild  hopes  in  extremity — that  Major 


20*  MR.    CLIFTON'S    RESOLUTION-. 

Cabe'il  might  anticipate  his  wish,  and  resign  his  claims.     IIo 
never  was  more  mistaken  in  his  life ! 

Mujoi  Oabell  listened  in  grave  silence  to  his  speech,  and 
then  in  high  displeasure,  exclaimed — 

"  By  my  soul,  sir !  this  is  a  very  astonishing  and  most 
offensive  thing,  you  tell  me !  Why  should  Zuleime  grieve 
thus  immoderately  over  the  death  of  this  young  officer.  Will 
you  explain  that  ?" 

"  Yes  !  I  might  say — because  he  was  her  intimate  com 
panion  in  her  own  home  all  the  summer — and  was  soon  after 
leaving  it,  so  barbarously  slaughtered.  That  is  quite  a  suffi 
cient  reason  for  the  tender-hearted  child  to  grieve  excessively. 
But  I  will  not  deceive  you,  Major  Cabell.  She  loved  this 
poor  young  man !" 

«  Sir  !     Mr.  CKiton !     By  Heaven,  sir  !" 

"  It  cannot  be  helped,  Charley  !  Hearts  cannot  be  bound 
by  parchment  and  red  tape !  She  loved  this  poor  Frank 
Fairfax — and  her  heart  is  broken  by  his  sudden,  dreadful 
loss.  Her  grief,  poor  thing,  must  have  its  way  !  She  shall 
tot  be  troubled !" 

"  And  pray,  sir,"  began  Major  Cabell,  speaking  with  de 
liberate  scorn — "  how  long  shall  this  faithless  girl  be  per 
mitted  to  weep  over  the  memory  of  that  fellow,  before  she 
is  required  to  give  her  hand  to  one  who  might  have  claimed 
it  as  his  right  long  ago  ?" 

"  Charles  Cabell,"  said  the  old  man,  speaking  slowly  and 
sadly,  "  is  it  possible  that  you  can — that  any  man  could  wish 
to  marry  a  broken-hearted  girl,  mourning  over  the  grave  of 
her  freshly  murdered  lover  !" 

"  Wish  to  marry  he-r  ?  WTish  to  marry  Zuleime  ?  Give 
her  to  me  !  Give  me  Zuleime  !  Only  give  her  10  me,  and 
then  see  !  She  is  my  right !  I  claim  her  by  your  promise — 
and  I  would  take  her  now!" 

"  But  you  are  certainly  mad !  You  would  be  miserable 
with  her!" 

^  «  Should  I?     That  is  my  affair!     Only  give  her  to  me  ! 
Come  !  let  me  have  her  to-day,  or  to-morrow,  and  I  will  take 
her  home  to  Richmond  with  me,"  said  Major  Cabell  vehe 
mcntly,  almost  fiercely.  * 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise,  amounting 
almost  to  fear 


MK.    CLIFTON'S    RESOLUTION.          205 

Have  I  ever  described  Major  Cabell  to  you  1  He  was  a 
small  man,  with  clear  cut,  sharpened  features,  and  pale  face, 
surrounded  by  light  brown  hair  and  whiskers,  with  very 
handsome  dark  brown  eyes,  but  with  a  certain  latent  ferocity 
in  the  eyes,  and  grimness  about  the  thin,  set  lips.  Somehow 
or  other  he  irresistibly  reminded  you  of  a  hyena — especially 
when  he  happened  to  laugh  that  thin,  ungenial  laugh. 

The  old  man  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  almost  amounting 
to  fear,  and  then  he  said — 

"  But  she  does  not  love  you  now!  She  cannot  love  you 
yet !  She  loves  Frank  in  his  shroud  better  than  any  one  left 
alive !" 

"  I  do  not  care  !  She  must  forget  Frank,  and  love  me ! 
Women  can  be  made  to  feel  or  feign  anything,  by  one  who 
understands  them." 

"  But  her  heart  is  breaking,  I  tell  you !" 

"  It  must  stop  breaking,  and  nerve  itself  to  life." 

"  She  is  weeping  her  life  a\vay !  She  is  a  Niobe,  I  tell 
you  !  A  living  fountain  of  tears  !" 

"  She  shall  dry  them  and  smile !  See  if  I  do  not  make 
her  do  it !  Pooh  !  it  is  baby  love,  all  this  !  Do  you  think 
a  girl  of  her  age,  can  feel  any  lasting  love,  or  grief,  or  en 
during  passion  of  any  sort  at  all  ?  Pooh,  pooh  !  I  tell  you 
if  her  lap-dog  were  killed,  she  would  blubber  and  weep  as 
much  over  its  death,  as  she  does  over  this  other  puppy's  fate  ! 
But.  once  for  all,  Mr.  Clifton,  I  tell  you  I  do  not  intend  to 
be  put  off,  or  in  any  way  annoyed  by  this  girl's  grief  and 
petulance.  It  is  not  well  for  you,  her,  or  myself,  that  it 
should  be  indulged.  Give  her  to  me  at  once,  according  to 
your  promise,  and  afterward  I  shall  know  how  to  deal  with 
her — far  better  than  you  seem  to  know." 

"  And  you  really  wish  to  marry  her  in  her  present  state, 
and  take  her  home  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes!  What  c  Ejection  ?  A  wedding-party  is  not  an  in 
dispensable  accessory  to  the  ceremony.  A  bridal  journey 
from  here  to  Richmond  would  be  a  very  good  substitute. 
Indi-ed,  since  the  catastrophe  of  the  last  wedding-party 
9t  Clifton,  I.  think  the  bridal  journey  would  be  in  the  best 
taste." 

"  Umph  '     And  you  would  marry  her  so,  and  so  take  her 
away '?" 
13 


• 


206  MR.    CLIFTON'S    RESOLUTION. 

«  Certainly." 

"Brute!" 

"  Sir  1" 

"  BRUTE,  I  say  '  She  would  rather  lie  down  with  Frank, 
in  his  bloody  grave  than  marry  you  !  And  /  would  rathes 
lay  my  child  there— ALIVE— than  give  her  to  you!  There  . 
it  is  said  !  Now,  I  hope  you  understand  me  V9 

Major  Cabell  brought  his  two  fierce  brown  eyes  to  bear 
upon  Mr.  Old  Gentleman,  and  gazed  as  if  he  thought  bin* 
bereft  of  his  senses.  Then  he  spoke  in  a  peculiarity  thin, 
smooth,  distinct  voice — 

"  Do  you  mean  what  you  say,  sir  ?" 

"Yes  I  do!     There!" 

"  And  have  you  duly  considered  this,  sir  ?" 

<•  Yes  I  have  !     There  !" 

•*And  you  know  and  are  prepared  to  meet  the  conse 
quences  ?" 

"  Yes  !  Do  your  worst !  There !"  said  the  old  man,  set 
ting  down  his  foot. 

Major  Cabell  arose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  floor  in 
deep,  perplexed  thought.  To  say  that  he  was  surprised  ai 
this  sudden,  unexpected  rebellion  and  daring  on  the  part  of 
Mr.  Clifton  would  not  be  sufficient.  He  was  just  astounded, 
and  could  not  surmise  where  the  strength  of  the  old  man  to 
oppose  him,  with  his  claims  and  his  power,  could  come  from ! 
He  thought  some  external  aid  had  been  given  !  He  never 
guessed  that  it  was  the  internal  victory  of  conscience  over 
cowardice. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  also  arose  and  stretched  himself,  expand 
ing  his  chest,  and  taking  a  long,  deep  breath  of  intense  relief 
ind  satisfaction,  saying — 

"  Thank  Heaven,  I  feel  better.  Feel  more  like  a  man 
than  I  have  felt  for  ten  years.  Now  let  the  worst  come,  1 
can  meet  it !" 

Major  Cabell  glanced  sideways  at  him,  and  continued  hia 
thoughtful  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor.  He  was  possessed 
with  a  sort  of  ferocious  passion  for  Zuleime,  a  passion  fanned 
to  fury  by  opposition.  He  was  not  one  to  bend  his  pride  to 
sue.  And  yet  he  must  have  her  !  Soon,  too  ! 

Old  Mr.  Clifton,  now  feeling  and  looking  so  much  better 
and  franker,  and  remembering  that  Major  Oahell  was  hid 


MR.     CLIFTON   S     RESOLUTION.  207 

guest  as  well  as  his  relative,  went  up  to  him  and  held  out  his 
hand,  saying,  heartily — 

"  Charley,  give  me  your  hand  !  I  do  not  know  what  you 
are  going  to  do,  but  I  know  that  I  am  ready  to  meet  what 
comes !  In  olden  times  mortal  foes  shook  hands  before  they 
entered  upon  a  deadly  combat.  In  our  times  the  executioner 
and  his  victim  exchange  courtesies.  And  the  humanity  of  it 
is  a  touching  comment  upon  the  cruel  necessities  of  our  legal 
and  social  code.  Let  us  not  be  more  ungracious  adversaries 
than  they.  Give  me  your  hand.  You  are  welcome  to  Clifton 
as  long  as  you  please  to  give  us  your  company.  Sport  is 
good  now  on  the  mountains,  and  you  can  amuse  yourself  as 
you  please." 

Major  Cabell  paused  in  his  walk,  and  placed  his  hand  in 
the  open  palm  of  Mr.  Clifton,  saying — 

"  I  will  take  you  at  your  word,  sir !  1  will  remain  your 
guest  for  a  few  days.  I  will  hope  that  what  you  have  said 
in  regard  to  the  marriage  of  myself  and  your  daughter,  has 
been  spoken  in  haste,  and  under  the  influence  of  anger.  I 
trust  that  you  will  review  your  words.  To-day  you  speak  from 
excitement — to-morrow  I  hope  that  judgment  will  dictate 
your  reply.  You  will  remember  that  /,  £00,  had  something 
to  complain  of  in  the  fact  that  my  affianced  bride,  or  one  that 
I  considered  such,  should  have  been  so  ill  guided,  or  so  illy 
guided  herself,  as  to  suffer  her  affections  to  fall  into  this  en 
tanglement.  But  we  will  say  no  more  about  it  now,  for  I  see 
Mrs.  Clifton  about  to  enter." 

Georgia  entered  indeed,  smiling. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  seized  the  opportunity,  and  while  Major 
Cabell  was  paying  his  devoirs  to  tbe  beauty,  excused  him 
self  and  left  the  room  to  go  and  see  how  Zuleime  was  getting 
on,  and  to  reassure  her  if  necessary. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  room,  Georgia  drew  Major  Ca 
bell  off  to  a  distant  sofa.  And  they  sat  down  and  entered 
upon  a  long,  confidential  conversation.  And  when  it  waa 
ended,  they  arose  and  separated  with  looks  of  great  satisfac 
tion. 


208  THE      WIDOWED      BRIDE. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


THE  WIDOWED   BRIDE. 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy, 

And  there  she  sat,  so  calm  and  pale, 

That  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom  warranted 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  laclcs, 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  very  life  was  there, 

So  still  she  was.  so  pale,  so  fair.— SCOTT. 

*»  iv&W  days  after  the  incidents  recorded  fa  the  last  chap- 
tei,  Mw-  Georgia  Clifton  entered  Zuleime's  room.  The  poor 
girl  was  bitting  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  window,  idle,  as  was 
never  hei  habit  before,  with  her  hands  lying  languidly  one 
over  the  other,  and  her  eyes  fixed  upon  vacancy. 

The  beauty  went  to  her  with  her  soft,  winning  way,  and 
took  her  haku,  and  stole  her  arm  over  her  shoulder,  and  said, 
tenderly — 

"  Zuleime,  i*  v  love,  do  not  sit  here  by  this  open  window 
Let  me  close  it,  and  lead  you  to  the  sofa." 

There  is  nothing  so  quiet  as  despair,  except  death.  There 
js  nothing  so  docile  as  despair  often  is.  The  beauty  knew 
this  by  a  satanic  inspiration,  and  calculated  on  it.  Zuleimo 
suffered  herself  to  X>e  led  to  the  sofa,  which  was  wheeled  up 
near  the  fire,  as  she  would  have  permitted  herself  to  be  led 
any  where  else.  Georgia  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  passed 
her  arm  around  her  waist,  and  said — 

"  My  dear,  I  think  you  love  your  old  father — do  you 
not?" 

The  poor  girl  raised  her  eyes  mournfully  to  the  lauy  tf 
face,  as  if  she  did  not  understand. 

"You  love  your  father.  You  would  not  be  willing  to 
pee  him  ruined  in  fortune,  and  degraded  in  honor,  would 
you?" 


IHB     WIDOWED     BRIDE.  20i» 

x.  till  Zuleime  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  speaker,  with 
an  expression  of  hopeless  imbecility. 

"  My  dear  child,  let  me  be  explicit.  And  try  to  under 
stand  me,  Zuleime.  It  is  of  vital  necessity  to  your  father 
that  you  should.  Will  you  listen  to  me,  Zuleime  1" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  mourner,  mechanically,  without  removing 
iier  gaze. 

"  Well,  then,  you  know  your  grandmother  left  you  thirty  ] 
thousand  dollars  ?    Well.     Your  father  owes  debts  amount 
ing  to  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  and  is  in  danger  of  an 
execution  or  a  prison,  every  day !     You  would  willingly  give 
nim  your  fortune  to  pay  his  debts  with,  we  know.     But,  un 
fortunately,  you  cannot  do  it,  because  you  are  not  of  age. 
Neither  can  your  father  appropriate  it,  of  course.     But  if 
you  were  to  marry,  then  your  husband  would  be  in  legal 
possession  of  that  property,  and  could  dispose  of  it.     Now, 
Major   Cabell  has   bought   up  your  father's   notes   to   the   j 
amount  of  eighteen  thousand  dollars,  using  all  his  available   j 
funds,  for  the  purpose  of  saving  him  from  great  distress,  and  < 
in  the  expectation  of  marrying  yow,  his  daughter,  and  ob-  J 
taining  your  little  fortune,  which  would  replenish  his  coffers 
again.     Now,  Zuleime,  Major  Cabell  is  himself  pressed  for  f 
money.     He  would  not,  of  course,  come  down  upon  your  ' 
father  with  an  execution,  but  he  will  be  compelled  to  sell  / 
those  notes  again  for  whatever  he  can  get  for  them.     And 
then  of  course  the  purchaser — some  Jew  or  broker,  would  j 
have  no  such  scruples,  but  would  levy  on  all  the  personal 
property  of  his  debtor,  and  most  likely  throw  him  into  prison,  i 
where  he  might  languish  for  years— where  he  might  die!'\ 
Zuleime !  you  will  not  suffer  this,  if  you  can  prevent  it,  will 
you  ?     Speak  to  me,  my  love  !     I  do  not  believe  you  under 
stand  me  now  !     Why  don't  you  answer  me,  Zuleime  *-" 

«  I — I  don't  know.  Yes  I  do.  It  was  about  a — about  a 
— about  somebody's  going  to  prison.  Was  it  the  murderer  1 
Alas,  that  will  not  bring  him  back.  Neither  do  I  wish  it. 
Not  even  /,  who  loved  him  so.  I  would  not  make  any  body 
suffer,  for  the  world.  Oh,  no." 

The  beauty  looked  at  the  pale  girl  in  deep  perplexity  a 
moment,  and  then  said — 

"  Zuleime,  your  father  is  suffering  1  Let's  see  if  ihat  wUl 
"ouse  you !" 


JJIO  THE      WIDOWED      BEIDE. 

«  My  father  ?  Oh,  no,  he  mustn't.  Tell  him  not  to  mind 
it.  1  do  not,  much,  now.  I  know  he  is  at  rest.  And  we 
shall  he,  soon.  Tell  him  not  to  mind  it." 

"Zuleirue!  Awake!  Arouse  yourself!  Your  father  is  in 
danger,  I  tell  you!" 

"  In  danger — in  danger.     Tell  me  ahout  it." 

"Listen  to  me,  then!  Rouse  your  mind!  and  fix  it 
upon  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you  ahout  your  father's  peril." 

And  the  lady  took  her  hands  and  looked  into  her  eyes, 
watching  their  expression,  and  bringing  hack  her  wandering 
ideas  every  time  they  showed  the  least  sign  of  flying,  and 
rousing  up  her  flagging  intellect  every  time  it^  betrayed  a 
disposition  to  sink — and  so  repeated  the  whole  history  of  the 
difficulty  over  again.  But  the  distracted  mind  of  the  poor 
girl  was  scarcely  able  to  follow  the  pains-taking  narrator 
through  the  facts  of  the  case.  Passing  her  hand  once  or 
twice  across  her  corrugated  brow,  she  said — 

"  What — what  is  it  you  say  about  father,  and  prisons,  and 
Major  Cabell  ?  I — I  am  afraid  my  memory  isn't  as  good  as 
it  used  to  be — please  tell  me  over  again." 

The  beauty,  with  a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  reiterated  the 
story,  placing  it  in  the  fewest,  simplest,  and  most  direct 
words  she  could  find.  But  the  stricken  girl  only  looked 
eorely  distressed  and  perplexed,  and  said,  plaintively— 

"  Please  forgive  me,  and  tell  me  what  it  is  that  threatens 
father!" 

"  An  execution — that  will  sweep  off  all  the  furniture  from 
the  house,  and  all  the  negroes  from  the  plantation ;  parting 
husbands  and  wives,  and  parents  and  children,  and  brothers 
and  sisters,  among  those  poor,  faithful  creatures  who  love 
you  so  well.  And  for  your  father's  person,  a  jail,  where  he 
may  be  for  years,  or  until  he  dies." 

"  Oh,  pray  don't  talk  to  me  any  more,  my  head  is  so  wild, 
so  wandering,  it  wants  to  go  back  to  something,"  said  the 
poor  thing,  pressing  her  temples,  and  strongly  attracted  to 
hor  one  great  wo. 

"But  your  father!" 

"  Yes  !     Oh,  only  tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do  !" 

"  To  marry  Major  Cabell,  who  will  then  have  the  disposal 
of  your  fortune,  and  can  co^er  those  notes  and  save  ycui 


THE     WIDOWED     BRIDE.  211 

"  But — oli,  yes !  Now  I  remember.  Father  said  there 
was  no  necessity  !"  I  needn't  do  it !"  said  the  girl,  pressing 
her  finger  hard  upon  the  centre  of  her  forehead,  and  looking 
keen  and  old  with  the  mental  effort  to  bring  memory,  atten 
tion  and  understanding  to  bear  upon  the  subject.  "  Yes, 
fes,  yes,  yes, — he  said  I  should  weep  in  peace." 

"  Yes,  your  poor  old  father  loves  you  better  than  himself. 
And  he  said  that  sooner  than  you  should  marry  a  man  you 
did  not  love,  he  would  die  in  jail." 

"  Did  he  *  My  dear  good  father  !  Oh,  yes  !  now  I  think 
of  it,  it  was  something  like  that,  sure  enough !  Only  my 
head  is  so  queer!  He  must  not  go  to  jail — oh,  never !" 

"  IJe  must,  unless  vou  marry  Major  Cabell,  and  sav« 
him." 

"  Well,  I  can  marry  Major  Cabell — it  don't  matter  much- 
do  you  think  it  does  1  Spirits  up  in  Heaven  know  nothing 
of  what  is  going  on  on  earth,  or  they  know  all  about  it,  and 
either  is  better  than  our  deceptive  half-knowledge.  If  spirits 
know  anything,  they  will  know  our  spirit.  Dear  Frank  will 
know — will  know  my  spirit — nay,  he  does !  I  feel  sure  of 
"t  at  this  moment.  I  will  marry  Major  Cabell." 

"  But,  Zuleime,  if  your  father  thinks  you  dislike  Major 
Cabell,  he  will  not  permit  you  to  marry  him." 

"  But  I  don't  dislike  Major  Cabell.  I  don't  dislike  any 
one.  I  could  not  now.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  feel  sorry  for 
every  one.  I  pity  every  one.  Every  one  has  so  much  trou 
ble,  mamma !  Mamma,  I  feel  sorry  for  you.  I  do  not  know 
how  it  is,  but  I  do  feel  very  sorry  for  you.  Have  you  any 
irouble  ?  You  must  have.  Well,  let  God  do  as  He  pleases 
with  you,  because  He  knows  best.  Besides,  it  is  only  for  a 
little  while.  And  it  will  all  come  right.  Kiss  me,  mamma 
I  don't  think  I  loved  you  well  enough  when  you  first  came 
here  a  stranger.  Never  mind,  I  will  try  to  love  you  more  in 
the  future." 

Georgia  let  the  poor  girl  kiss  her,  and  then  arose  and  made 
an  excuse  to  go.  Zuleime  was  weakening  all  her  purposes. 
And  she  was  obliged  to  escape  as  people  fly  sometimes  from 
a  sermon. 

"  Please  send  Kate  to  me,  jnamma,"  said  Zuleime. 

Ard  very  soon  Catherine  entered 

*k  Dear  Kat'3 !  please?  come  and  comb  and  curl  my  hair. 


212  THE      WIDOWED      BRIDE. 

and  put  on  my  crimson  dress,  and  make  me  decenl  and  pretty 
to  go  down  into  the  parlor  to  see  Cousin  Charles.  It  don'< 
matter,  you  know,  Kate.  Frank  knows  all  about  it.  Ha 
thinks  so,  too.  Because  he  sees  my  heart  is  breaking  all  the 
faster  for  it,  and  that  I  shall  the  sooner  be  with  him.  You 
see,  Kate,  it  is  the  heart-strings  that  hold  the  soul  down  t« 
the  body,  and  when  they  snap — there  !  It  is  off — it  is  gone 
like  a  balloon, — when  the  cord  is  cut  it  ascends  to  Heaven 
7  feel  light  like  that,  sometimes,  as  if  only  one  little  thread 
kept  my  soul  down,  and  if  it  were  to  snap,  I  could  go." 

Catherine  looked  at  the  mourner  in  deep  trouble.  Then 
she  began  to  take  down  her  hair  and  comb  its  long  sable 
tresses  out,  because  she  knew  that  in  itself  to  be  a  soothing 
process.  And  she  stood  and  combed  and  brushed  it  a  long 
time,  and  then  put  it  up,  an<i  bathed  her  face  and  hands. 

"  Now,  my  crimson  dress,"  said  Zuleime,  quietly. 

Catherine  sat  down  by  her  side,  and  embracing  her  affec 
tionately,  said — 

"  Dear  Zuleime,  you  are  not  quite  well  enough  to  go  down 
into  the  parlor  ;  and,  besides,  Major  Cabell  is  not  here.  He 
is  gone  with  some  gentlemen  upon  the  mountain  to  shoot 
birds." 

Zuleime  sat  silent  for  a  long  time,  enveloped  by  Cathe 
rine's  arms,  and  leaning  upon  her  shoulder.  At  last  Kate 
whispered — 

"  Dear  Zuleime,  confide  in  me,  and  relieve  your  overbur 
dened  bosom.  A  secret  is  so  hard  to  keep  alone  in  a  feor- 
rowful  breast.  Lay  yours  on  my  heart,  Zuleime,  and  it  shall 
be  safer  there  than  my  own  life.  Tell  me — what  tie  is  it 
that  binds  you  to  Frank  ?" 

«  Hush,  oh,  hush  !" 

"  Tell  me,  darling — you  know  it  is  not  from  curiosity  I 
ask — it  is  that  I  wish  you  to  relieve  your  heart." 

"  Hush  !  I  promised  him  not  to  tell." 

"  Death  absolves  you  from  that  promise.  A  painful  secret 
is  very  hard  to  keep  alone.  /  know  it,  dearest,  for  /,  too, 
have  a  secret.  Now  will  you  trust  me  V 

"  Hush  !  hush !  It  was  his  last  request — I  must  comply 
with  it!"  said  the  girl,  with  wild  eyes. 

Catherine  knelt  down  before  her,  clasped  her  arms  around 
her,  and  partly  to  win  her  confidence,  and  partly  to  dr?<» 


THE     WIDOWED     BRIDE.  213 

her  mind  from  dwelling  upon  the  wo  that  was  crazing  hor, 
said : — 

"  Zuleime,  look  at  me.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  my  secret, 
that  which  it  will  pain  and  humble  my  heart  to  tell ! — that 
which  it  makes  my  cheek  burn  now  only  to  think  of!  Zu 
leime,  I  love  a  man  who  never  sought,  and  who  would  despise 
my  love  !  And  with  whom  it  is  forever  and  forever  impossi  • 
ble  that  I  should  marry.  Yet  I  love  him  so  much — so  mucu, 
that  my  heart  is  ready  to  burst  with  its  powerless  longing  to 
do  him  some  good !  Zuleime,  I  would  give  him  myself — 
(nay,  never  mind  my  cheek  burning — I  will  speak  in  spite  of 
its  protest) — or  any  dearest  faculty  or  possession  of  mine,  if 
it  only  could  increase  his  happiness.  Zuleime,  there  is  a 
richness  and  fullness  of  joy  in  sacrificing  one's  self  for  one 
we  love  that  passes  all  understanding." 

"  I  know  there  is,"  breathed  the  mourner,  looking  down 
in  her  face  seriously. 

"  That  is  the  joy  that  I  long  for.  And  oh,  believe  me,  I 
would  sacrifice  myself  or  any  possession  or  faculty  I  have,  if 
it  would  only  add  to  his  happiness  or  power.  Eyesight  is  a 
precious  treasure,  is  it  not  ?  If  I  could  give  mine  to  him, 
and  endow  him  with  perfect  vision  down  to  deep  old  age,  I 
would  consent  to  be  dark  forever.  The  power  of  speech  is 
a  great  gift — if  by  the  loss  of  mine  I  could  endow  him  with 
irresistible  eloquence,  I  would  be  dumb  forever.  He  thinks, 
Zuleime,  that  I  have  talent.  And  sometimes  /  think — but 
I  don't  know,  either !  Anyhow,  if  by  yielding  all  mine  I 
could  add  a  mite  to  the  treasures  of  his  intellect,  I  would  be 
willing  to  be  a  fool  for  life.  In  a  word — if  by  abdicating  all 
my  being,  I  could  add  to  the  largeness  of  his  life,  I  would 
glow  with  joy  to  do  it." 

"  Do  no't  love  him  so !  He  will  die  if  you  do  !  /  know 
it!  Frank  died!" 

"  And  yet,  Zuleime,  it  is  not  that  I  wish  to  lose  my  being,~\ 
but  to  add  to  it.  I  do  not  know  why  it  is,  but  I  feel —  not  } 
like  an  individual,  independent  existence,  but  like  the  } 
complement  of  that  other  existence — a  half  life — not  full } 
and  complete  of  itself,  waiting  to  be  joined  to  the  other) 
naif." 

"  He  will  love  you.     He  will  find  you  out,"  said  Zuleime 
Ana  her  words,  and  tone,  and  look  thrilled  like  a  prophetjj 


2H  THE      WIDOWED      BRIDE. 

to  tLe  heart  of  Catherine,  but  she  shook  her  head  gravely* 
and  answered — 

"  Never,  Zuleime !    It  would  be  a  sin  even  to  hope  it! 

But,  Zuleime,  I  have  laid  my  secret  on  your  heart — now  will 
you  confide  in  me "?" 

"Oh,  Kate!  I  would  do  it.  I  wish  to  do  it'  But  I 
promised  him !" 

"  Dear  Zuleime,  when  he  required  that  of  you,  he  did  not 
think  what  might,  what  has  happened.     You  must  tell  me,      ^ 
Zuleime.     For  if  you  have  not  some  one  with  whom  you  can 
talk  freely,  you — /  fear  for  you.     You  cannot  bear  your 
burden  alone !    Few  human  beings  can  !     Tell  me,  darling  ?'* 

"  Oh,  Kate  !  It  was  the  last  thing  he  asked  me  '  I  must 
comply  with  his  wish !" 

"  Zuleime !  I  am  about  to  cast  away  all  reserve !  I  am 
about  to  tell  you  the  name  of  him  I  love  so  madly.  It  is 
Archer  Clifton,  your  cousin — your  sister's  betrothed !  There ! 
I  have  thrown  open  the  very  sanctuary  of  my  heart  to  you. 
I  have  shown  its  secret  sin  and  shame !  Now,  will  you  con 
fide  in  me!" 

"  Dear  Kate  !  Dearest  Kate !  My  own  secret's  without 
reserve,  but  not  another's." 

Catherine  arose  and  took  the  seat  by  the  mourner's  side. 
Well  would  it  have  been  for  Zuleime  in  after  life,  if  she 
could  now  have  made  a  confidant  as  well  as  friend  of  the 
excellent  girl.  But  at  least  Catherine's  efforts  had  not  been 
all  in  vain.  The  mind  of  the  mourner  was  a  little  more 
rational — her  part  in  conversation  not  quite  so  distrait. 
Presently  Zuleime  said — 

"  It  is  getting  towards  evening.  Cousin  Charles  will  be 
back  to  supper.  Curl  my  hair,  Kate !  and  put  on  my  crim 
son  dress,  I  must  go  down  and  spend  the  evening  with  them 
in  the  parlor !  I  must,  Kate.  It  is  for  my  dear  father's 
sake  !  You  do  not  know,  Kate,  else  you  would  also  advise 
it" 

Catherine  essayed  to  prevent  her,  but  finding  her  quite 
determined,  yielded  the  point,  and  assisted  her  to  dress. 
When  her  toilet  was  complete,  she  sat  down  again  upon  the 
sofa,  and  put,  her  hand  to  her  head  in  troubled  thought. 
Then  at  last  she  spoko,  saying — 

<(  Kate  !   I  am  afraid.     It  seems  to  ms  that- —that  my  head 


THE     WIDOWED     BRIDE.  215 

has  not  been  quite  right.  And — and  ray  speech  has  not 
been  quite  to  the  point.  Kate,  I  want  you  to  tell  me — can 
I  trust  myself  to  talk,  do  you  think  ?  or  had  I  better  not  try 
this  evening?  They  might  think  me  crazy  if  I  should  not 
talk  straight !  But  I  am  not !  I  am  not  crazy — only — 
Tell  me  how  I  am,  and  what  I  had  better  do,  dear  Kate  ?" 

"  Try  to  attend  and  be  interested  in  what  is  going  on, 
dearest,  and  talk  when  occasion  presents  itself.  And  do  not 
be  afraid.  Every  one  will  understand  it  is  only  nervousness, 
darling." 

"  You  encourage  me,  Catherine,"  said  the  poor  girl,  "  and 
now  just  give  me  your  arm  down  stairs." 

Kate  complied  with  her  request. 

The  parlor  was  empty  when  fhey  entered,  and  Zuleime 
had  an  opportunity  of  settling  herself  in  a  large  arm-chair, 
and  composing  herself,  before  any  one  came  in.  Mr.  Clifton, 
Major  Cabell,  and  several  other  gentlemen  returned  from  the 
shooting  excursion  and  entered  the  parlor  together.  Mr. 
Clifton  looked  surprised  and  pleased  to  see  Zuleime,  "  clothed 
and  in  her  right  mind  ;"  and  Major  Cabell  seemed  interested 
and  curious.  Zuleime  arose,  and  supported  herself  by  rest>- 
ing  one  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair,  while  she  received 
the  greetings  of  her  father's  guests.  And  thanks  to  the 
shadowing  of  the  black  lustrous  curls,  and  the  reflection  of 
the  crimson  dress,  none  could  see  the  wanness  of  her  face. 
Mrs.  Clifton  and  Miss  Clifton  entered  soon  after,  and  in  the 
general  conversation  that  ensued,  poor  Zuleime  escaped  par 
ticular  notice.  Once  Major  Cabell  contrived,  without  draw 
ing  attention  upon  himself,  to  find  his  way  to  her  side,  and 
mter  into  conversation  with  her.  And  he  was  surprised, 
perplexed,  nonplussed  at  the  gentleness  and  almost  tender 
ness  of  her  manner.  Before  leaving  her  he  asked — 

"  When  can  I  have  an  interview  with  you,  Zuleirae  ?" 

•'  Whenever  you  please,  Cousin  Charles,"  she  answered, 
gently. 

At  parting,  he  pressed  her  hand,  and  to  his  surprise,  the 
pressure  was  softly  returned.  And  be  left  her,  thinking 
14  the  sex"  more  of  a  riddle  than  he  ever  thought  it  before. 

The  next  day,  about  noon,  Major  Cabell  and  Zuleime  met 
ID  the  saloon,  "and  had  an  interview  of  nearly  an  hour's 
length 


216  THE      WIDOWED      BKIDB 

When  Zuleirae  left  him  and  came  out,  she  met  her  father 
in  the  hall.  Taking  his  hands  in  hers,  »he  looked  up  in  hi? 
troubled  face  and  said — 

"  Dear  father !  you  remember  many  weeks  ago,  you  asked 
Die  to  fix  the  day  when  I  should  be  married  to  Cousin 
Charles  ?» 

"Never  mind,  never  mind,  my  dear!  That  is  all  over 
now  !  You  shall  not  be  troubled,  my  love  !" 

"  Dear  father,  I  have  just  told  Cousin  Charles  that  I  will 
give  him  my  hand  on  Tuesday  fortnight,"  said  Zuleime,  and 
pressing  both  the  old  man's  hands  to  her  lips,  she  turned  and 
left  him  standing  there  in  speechless  astonishment,  while  she 
went  up  stairs — and  throwing  herself  upon  her  knees  by  her 
bed,  buried  her  face  in  the  clothes,  and  breathed — "  It  won't 
be  for  long,  Frank  !  Oh  !  Frank,  you  know  it  won't  be  foi 
long'" 


THE     YOUNG     MOURNER.  217 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  YOUNG  MOURNER. 

Mine  after  life?    What  is  mine  after  life? 

My  day  is  closed.     The  gloom  of  night  come?  on, 

A  hopeless  darkness  settles  o'er  my  fate. — JOANNA  BAILME. 

THERE  is  no  state  of  mind  so  calm  as  that  of  hopelessneso 
And,  therefore,  there  is  none  so  often  mistaken  for  resigna 
tion.  Zuleime's  cheeks  were  pale  and  hollow,  her  eyes 
heavy  and  sunken,  and  surrounded  by  a  dark,  livid  circle— 
and  she  had  contracted  an  unconscious  habit  of  pressing  her 
hand  tightly  over  her  heart,  while  a  look  of  pain  corrugated 
her  brow.  Yet,  withal,  she  moved  through  the  house  very 
quietly — without  a  sigh  or  a  tear — yea,  even  with  a  smile  for 
whom  she  chanced  to  meet — a  wan  smile  of  tenderness,  fel 
low-feeling.  For  the  grief  that  had  come  to  her  own  young 
heart,  had  revealed  to  her  the  secret  of  a  general  sorrow, 
and  awakened  a  deep  human  sympathy.  Yet  perhaps  it  was 
a  morbid  excess  of  this  feeling  that  made  her  see,  in  every 
one  she  met,  a  fellow-sufferer.  Her  father  misunderstood 
her  serenity  and  her  sweet  smile.  And  his  wife  led  him  into 
that  misunderstanding. 

"  It  is  a  merciful  provision  of  Heaven,  that  young  people 
of  her  tender  age,  can  feel  no  lasting  grief.  At  first,  over 
any  misfortune  they  lament  excessively.  But  it  is  very 
soon  forgotten,"  said  Georgia. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  Charley  Cabell  said  something  like  the  same 
thing,  and,  indeed,  it  seems  to  be  true,"  replied  Mr.  Clifton. 

We  are  easily  persuaded  to  believe  that  which  we  wish  to 
credit.  And  so  the  old  gentleman  believed  in  the  correctness 
of  his  wife's  judgment,  and  in  the  reality  of  his  daughter's 
peace, 

Major  Cabell  was  baffled  and  perplexed.  "  Jealousy  is  as 
eruel  as  the  grave,"  and  so,  also,  is  that  base  passion  which 


213  THE      YOUNG      MOURNER. 

often  goes  by  the  holy  name  of  Love.  It  had  been  under 
the  influence  of  both  of  these  that  Charles  Cabell  had  sworn 
to  punish  Zuleime  severely  for  what  he  called  her  faithless 
ness.  But  for  the  present,  at  least,  he  was  completely  frus 
trated.  There  was  nothing  to  complain  of  in  her  conduct  to 
him.  She  was  very  kind  and  gcnvle — not  with  the  gentleness 
of  meekness  and  humility,  but  with  that  of  a  compassionate 
toleration — such  as  an  angel  might  feel  in  looking  down 
upon  a  determined  sinner — seeing  his  moral  insanity,  and 
foreseeing  his  consequent  wretchedness.  Major  Cabell  had 
frequently  heard  of  mourners  who  could  not  bear  to  hear  the 
names  of  their  beloved,  lamented  dead,  spoken  before  them. 
And  he  thought  to  torture  her  bosom  by  frequently  revert 
ing  to  "  that  horrible  massacre,"  and  "  poor  Frank."  But 
he  could  not  add  one  pang  to  those  she  had  already  endured 
Her  sorrow  was  too  deep  to  be  probed — to  be  touched  by  a 
superficial  hand  like  his.  She  could  bear  to  listen  and  reply 
when  he  talked  of  her  massacred  love.  For  like  a  stationary 
panorama  of  the  past  and  the  present,  his  life  and  death  were 
ever  before  her  mind.  She  could  converse,  without  new 
emotion,  of  him  over  whose  fate,  in  its  deepest,  darkest  hor 
rors,  she  was  ever  brooding.  If  any  mourners  cannot  brook 
to  hear  the  name  of  the  lost  mentioned  in  their  presence,  it 
is  because  they  are  already  blessed  with  long  seasons  of  for- 
getfulness,  and  shrink  from  the  pain  of  remembrance.  She 
had  no  such  pang  of  sudden  recollection  to  dread.  His  me 
mory —  her  sorrow — was  ever  present  with  her. 

Catherine  watched  her  with  deep  and  painful  interest. 
She  sought  an  opportunity,  and  once  more  had  a  serious  con 
versation  with  her. 

•'  Zuleime,  don't  marry  under  present  circumstances.  If, 
as  you  say,  your  father  is  in  the  power  of  Major  Cabell,  it  is 
bad.  But  if  you  marry  him  to  deliver  your  father,  it  will  be 
worse,  and  will  not  eventuate  in  any  good.  And  two  wrongs 
never  make  a  right,  Zuleime.  Do  no  wrong,  dearest,  but 
trust  in  God  for  deliverance,"  said  Catherine,  earnestly. 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  doing  right.  It  will  please 
Cousin  Charles,  and  save  father.  And  as  for  myself — it 
can't  matter  much,  you  know,"  replied  the  despairing  girl. 
And  to  this  view  of  the  case  she  adhered,  with  all  the  tenacity 
of  a  morbid  resolution. 


THE     YOUNG     MOURNER. 

A  few  days  after  this  Catherine  returned  to  her  brother's 
cabin,  wondering  what  new  misfortune  would — against  her 
tixed  determination — throw  her  back  among  the  Cliftons. 

Major  Cabell  had  written  to  Richmond  for  his  mother  and 
sisters  to  come  down  and  be  present  at  his  marriage.  And 
one  day,  near  the  last  of  the  week,  the  carriage  of  Mrs. 
Cabell  rolled  up  to  the  door.  Knowing  nothing  whatsoever 
of  Zuleime's  attachment  to  the  young  soldier,  and  consequent 
deep  grief  at  his  fate,  they  were  very  much  shocked  to  see 
her  looking  so  ill,  but  quietly  ascribed  it  to  fatigue  and  anx 
iety  in  nursing  Carolyn.  And  Mrs.  Cabell  was  emphatic  in 
demonstrations  of  motherly  kindness,  which  the  gentle  girl 
acknowledged  with  grateful  smiles,  and  by  such  attentions  aa 
she  had  the  power  to  bestow.  The  city  ladies  had  made  a 
short  stage  that  day,  and  were  but  little  wearied,  so  that 
after  a  little  slumber,  and  the  refreshment  of  the  bath,  and 
of  tea,  they  felt  well  enough  to  spend  the  evening  in  the 
parlor. 

The  family  were  all  around  the  evening  fire,  when  Mrs. 
Cabell  and  her  daughters  entered. 

Major  Cabell — who  was  as  usual  sitting  by  Zuleime,  with 
his  arm  over  the  back  of  her  chair  in  a  property-holding  sort 
of  manner — arose,  and  handing  his  mother  to  a  seat,  received 
from  her  hand  a  roll  of  papers. 

"  It  is  some  new  music,  my  son,  for  the  dear  girls.  There 
are  some  beautiful  songs  of  Moore's  just  published.  Carolyn, 
love,  I  have  thirsted  to  hear  your  sweet  voice  again.  Will 
you  sing  ?" 

Miss  Clifton's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  turned  away 
her  head. 

Zuleime  stole  to  her  aunt's  side,  and  while  seeming  to  sx- 
amine  the  music,  whispered — 

"  Dear  Aunt  Cabell,  Carolyn  has  entirely  lost  her  voice!" 

The  lady  was  very  much  shocked  to  hear  it,  and  grieved  at 
her  own  unfortunate  proposition,  but  durst  not  trust  herself 
to  reply,  lest  Carolyn  should  hear  and  understand  the  sub 
ject  of  their  conversation. 

Major  Cabell,  who  was  turning  over  the  music,  suddenly 
Kad  his  gaze  fixed  by  one  particular  piece.  His  eyes  lighted 
op  with  a  peculiar  satisfaction,  and  turning  to  Zuleime,  hf 
said' 


220  THE      YOUNG       MOFRNER. 

"  My  own .  you  can  read  music  at  sight.     Can  you  not  *" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  And  you  can  sing  and  play  at  sight — can  you  not  V 

"  Yes,  if  it  is  not  too  difficult." 

"  Is  this  difficult  ?"  he  asked,  holding  a  page  out  to  her. 

"  No,  that  is  very  simple,"  said  Zuleime,  looking  entirely 
at  the  music — not  at  the  words. 

"  It  is  a  ballad  of  Thomas  Moore's.  I  wish  you  to  sing  it 
for  us.  Will  you?" 

"  Certainly." 

"  Come,  then,"  he  said,  and  took  her  hand,  and  led  her 
to  the  piaao.  He  seated  her,  and  laid  the  song  before  hei^ 
saying  to  himself,  "  If  she  can  sing  that  through  without  emo 
tion — ay,  or  with  emotion — if  she  can  get  through  it  at  all — 
she  can  do,  or  suffer  anything !  She  is  a  heroine." 

Zuleime  was  reading  over  the  words,  preparatory  to  sing 
ing  them. 

And  he  was  watching  her  intently.  But  she  read  through 
the  song,  turning  the  leaves  calmly,  her  pale  cheek  never 
changing  its  hue.  Then  she  restored  the  first  page  to  its 
place  before  her,  and  began  to  play  the  prelude.  The  ladies 
and  old  Mr.  Clifton  drew  near,  and  gathered  around  her. 
Then  her  voice  arose,  soft,  clear  and  plaintive,  but  unfalter 
ing  as  her  cheek  remained  unchanging — though  her  father 
trembled  for  her  as  the  words  of  the  song  fell  on  his  ear. 
That  song  was  "The  Broken  Heart,"  by  Thomas  Moore. 
ZuJ'Vtue  sang — 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps. 

And  lovers  around  her  are  sighing, 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 
She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking  : 
y        Ah  !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 

How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking. 

voice  faltered — she  paused. 

"  Come !  no  miserable,  maudlin,  mawkish  self-pity,  I  be- 
c-eech  you  !"  whispered  Major  Cabell,  stooping  to  her  ear. 

Whether  Mr.  Clifton1  heard  the  cruel  whisper,  or  whether 
he  only  saw  her  slight  agitation,  is  uncertain — but  he  drew 
near  an^  stood  by  her  side.  She  recovered,  and  continued — 


THE     YOUNG     MOURNER.  221 

He  had  lived  lor  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life-  — 

She  paused  again — again  essayed  to  sing — her  voice  qua 
vering,  sunk  into  silence  liks  the  rudely-swept  strings  of  the 
harpsichord — the  grayness  of  death  crept  over  her  counte 
nance,  and  she  fell  back  into  the  arms  of  her  father,  \vho 
angrily  exclaimed —  .- 

"  Charles  !  you  are  a  brute !  a  demon  !  to  ask  her  to  ,sin<? 
that  song.  Zulcime  !  Zuleime,  my  darling !  speak  to  me!" 

He  sat  down  on  the  sofa,  holding  her  in  his  arms.  The 
ladies  drew  around  with  fans,  with  cold  water,  with  hartshorn. 
But  she  recovered  very  soon,  and  sat  up — and  declined  going 
up  stairs  to  bed — and  thanked  them  all  for  their  care,  gently 
begging  them  not  to  take  so  much  trouble  on  her  ac 
count. 

"  This  is  all  very  strange,  madam,"  said  Mrs.  Cabell,  aside 
to  Mrs.  Clifton. 

"  Zuleime  is  so  nervous  and  sensitive  ever  since  Carolyn's 
Jlness,  that  the  news  of  that  massacre,  and  the  death  of  her 
old  playmate  and  companion,  has  quite  overwhelmed  her.  I 
suppose  this  music  awoke  her  sensibilities,"  said  Georgia, 
composedly. 

If  Mrs.  Cabell  had  any  suspicion  of  the  truth)  she  was  too 
well  bred  to  express  it  then  and  there.  And  the  matter  ended 
for  the  moment. 

But  after  this  evening,  Zuleimo  was  never  the  same.  Her 
fortitude  seemed  entirely  to  have  given  away.  Her  calmness 
was  utterly  broken  up.  A  strango,  wild  terror  and  incerti 
tude  had  come  upon  her. 

The  next  day,  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  came  over  to 
call  on  the  visitors.  Nevevthcless,  in  the  course  of  the  call, 
Major  Cabell  found  the  opportunity  he  sought,  of  taking  Zu 
leime  to  task  for  what  he  railed  her  miserable  weakness. 

"  You  are  unfaithfrl — false  at  heart — you  cherish  the. 
image  of  this  young  m?,n  secretly,  while  you  pretend  to  be 
true  to  me  !  Pah  !  TVell !  why  donH  you  answer  me  ?  Have 
you  anything  to  say  ?" 

"  Cousii  Charles,  does  not  the  grave  sanctify  any  affec 
tion  ?  Ig  it  a  orime  to  remember  q  dead  friend  V9 

tl  Tt  is  ?  irr/rable,  druling  weakness !  a  maudlin,  mawkish. 
ri«»  p*V>g  piece  oc  unfaithfulness  to  duty — and  leads 


222  THE      YOUN&      MOURNEB. 

you  into  the  exhibition  of  such  scenes  as  that  of  last  night 
Such  whining,  whimpering,  contemptible  self-pity  !  I  protest 
you  are  the  most  false-hearted  and  selfish  weioan  I  ever  met 
with  in  my  life.  It  is  your  own  griefs  and  regrets  and  re 
verses,  that  occupy  you  all  the  time.  And  now !  instead  of 
listening  to  me,  and  replying — you  are  falling  away  into 
thought  again  !  Come  !  answer  me,  now !  Was  it  not  self- 
pity,  that  caused  you  to  faint  during  the  singing  of  that  a 
propos  song — which,  by  the  way,  I  gave  you  as  an  ordeal ! 
Cnne !  say !  Wasn't  it  self-pity  ?" 

"  JVb,  nor  was  it  the  song.  If  I  pitied  myself,  should  I 
not  pity  you  as  much  ?  It  is  not  such  a  happy  fate,  Cousin 
Charles,  to  marry  a  grief-stricken  girl  like  me,  I  know." 

"JVb  /  If  I  calculate  upon  your  continued  indulgence  of 
that  grief,  which  I  do  not !  JVb  /  Trust  me  on  the  part  of 
my  wife,  there  must  and  shall  be  no  such  exhibitions  of  feel 
ing  as  that  of  last  night." 

p  "I  do  not  know  why  you  wish  to  marry  ine  !"  she  broke 
,  forth,  with  strange  wildness.  "  You  do  not  love  me !  Per- 
•haps  you  hate  me,  and  marriage  will  give  you  the  same  power 
,  to  work  out  your  hate  as  it  would  to  act  out  your  love !  Yes ! 
ill  do  suppose  that  is  really  the  key  to  the  riddle  !'- 
**" "  Perhaps  it  is,"  he  answered,  sarcastically. 

"  One  thing  I  beg  of  you,"  she  said  ;  "  while  we  stay  here 
— in  my  father's  presence — try  to  use  me  kindly — to  spare 
his  feelings — he  is  an  old  man.  Reserve  your  vengeance 
until  I  am  your  wife,  until  we  get  to  Richmond,  when  you 
will  have  full  power,  and  ample  time  and  space  to  work  your 
will." 

While  she  spoke  so  wildly,  she  pressed  and  rubbed  her 
hand  spasmodically  against  her  heart.  And  her  pale  brow 
was  corrugated,  and  her  intense  black  eyes  strained  and  sharp, 
ened  as  by  mental  and  physical  pain.  She  gasped  for  breath, 
and  began  again. 

"  I  do  not  know — I  am  sure — I  cannot  tell — whether, 
after  all,  we  will  ever  mar — " 

What  she  was  about  to  say  was  cut  short  by  the  entrance 
of  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  who  came  in,  with  her  shawl 
and  bonnet  on,  to  take  leave  of  Zuleime  and  Major  Cabell, 
and  invite  them  to  join  the  rest  of  the  family  in  coming  to 
dine  and  spend  the  evening  at  Hardbargain  the  next  day 


THE     YOUNG     MOURNER.  223 

Major  Cabell  accepted  the  invitation  for  himself  and  Zuleime, 
and  the  lady  took  her  departure. 

The  next  day  was  Saturday.  The  family  set  out  on  their 
visit  at  an  early  hour  of  the  day,  as  is  the  social  custom  of 
country  neighbors.  Old  Mr.  Clifton,  his  wife,  and  his  eldest 
daughter,  rode  in  his  carry-all.  Mrs.  Cabell  and  her  three 
daughters  went  in  that  lady's  carriage.  Zuleime  rode  on 
horseback,  attended  by  Major  Cabell. 

It  was  a  glorious  Indian  summer  day,  when  the  splendor 
of  the  autumnal  sunlight  would  be  too  dazzling,  but  for  the 
soft,  warm  mist  spread  veil-like  over  it.  At  another  time, 
Zuleime,  true  worshiper  of  nature,  might  have  drawn  deep 
draughts  of  pleasure  from  the  beauty  of  the  scene.  But 
now  the  gorgeous  magnificence  of  the  forests,  in  their  many 
colored  foliage — the  misty  mountain  steeps  softening  the  glory 
— the  fine  transparent  neutral  tint  of  the  heavens  leading 
the  eye  and  mind  up  through  infinite  heights  of  ether — the 
glowing  clouds  reposing  along  the  horizon — all  were  lost  upon 
her. 

An  hour's  ride  by  the  carriage  road  brought  the  party  tt» 
Hardbargain. 

Mrs.  Clifton  received  them  with  her  usual  quiet  cordiality 
There  was  something  very  composing  in  that  calm,  kind,  self, 
possessed  woman's  manner.  There  was  something  very  se 
dative  also  in  the  air  of  her  home.  In  her  company  and  in 
her  house  the  restless  became  quiet,  the  anxious  easy,  the 
desponding  cheerful,  even  the  despairing  mourners  over  some 
great  heart-wreck,  grew  languidly  aware  of  how  much  good 
was  left  them  in  the  comforts  of  daily  domestic  life,  and  the 
amenities  of  social  intercourse. 

She  was  strikingly  like  her  son.  One  was  inclined  to  won 
der  how  they — so  nearly  identical  in  features  and  complexion 
— should  differ  so  widely  in  many  points  of  character  and 
sentiment,  and  had  to  remember  that  all  in  which  he  did  not 
resemble  her  was  inherited  from  the  Cliftons.  Kate  felt  the 
likeness  keenly.  And  when  the  lady  turned  those  quiet, 
brilliant  eyes  upon  her,  her  heart  thrilled  to  the  glance  with 
strange  pain  and  pleasure.  And  when  once  or  twice — for 
the  lady  was  never  very  demonstrative  in  her  affection — she 
had  quietly  drawn  the  maiden  to  her  bosom — it  was  such  a 
heart-feeding  comfort,  that  Kate -felt  there  would  be  no  pos- 


224  THE      YOUNG      MOURNER. 

sibility  of  forgetting  Archer  Clifton,  while  thrown  into  daily 
intercourse  with  his  mother.  Once  when  Mrs.  Clifton  had 
looked  tenderly  into  her  eyes,  and  drawn  and  pressed  her 
closely  against  her  breast,  the  girl,  lost  for  an  instant,  had 
thrown  her  arms  around  the  lady,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
bosom.  And  for  some  time  after  that,  terrified  at  her  own 
impulse,  she  had  been  as  shy  of  the  mother,  as  she  could  have 
been  of  the  son.  Kate  had  kept  away  from  Hardbargain  for 
many  weeks,  but  to-day,  when  the  party  from  White  Cliffs  had 
arrived,  Mrs.  Clifton  sent  for  her,  with  the  message  that  her 
friend  Zuleime  had  come.  That  was  no  sufficient  lure  to  the 
resolute  girl,  however,  who  had  once  for  all  determined  that 
nothing  but  the  absolute  necessities  of  others  should  draw 
her  again  into  the  dangerous  association  of  the  Cliftons.  She 
returned  thanks  to  the  lady,  declining  the  visit.  Mrs.  Clif- 
was  disappointed  in  missing  the  society  of  her  young  fa- 
rorite  for  that  day.  Yet  the  time  passed  very  pleasantly 
notwithstanding.  There  is  scarcely  any  such  thing  as  a  stiff 
dinner  party  in  the  country. ,  And  such  a  thing  was  impos 
sible  at  Hardbargain.  The  ladies  had  all  brought  their 
parlor  work" — fine  netting,  knotting,  knitting,  or  sewing — 
and  they  worked  and  conversed  in  a  quiet,  pleasant  way, 
while  the  gentlemen  mingled  in  their  conversation,  or  talked 
with  each  other  upon  the  two  reigning  subjects  of  country 
discussion — agriculture  and  politics — or  sauntered  out  upon 
the  lawn  to  enjoy  the  fine  autumnal  weather  until  dinner. 
After  which,  the  ladies  in  the  cozy  parlor  lounged  a  little 
more  lazily,  and  grew  a  great  deal  more  kindly  in  their  inter- 


change  of  thought  and  sentiment,  and  the  gentlemen  enjoyed 
a  promenade  on  the  piazza,  and  the  stolen  luxury  of  their 
cigars. 

After  an  early  tea  the  party  took  leave.  They  returned 
in  the  same  manner  in  which  they  had  come.  Zuleime  on 
horseback,  escorted  by  Major  Cabell ;  the  others  in  carriages. 
Even  the  soothing  influence  of  Mrs.  Clifton's  home  and 
society  had  almost  failed  to  quiet  the  miserable  girl.  Her 
manner,  all  day  long,  had  been  erratic  in  the  extreme — now 
depressed  into  gloom — sunken  nearly  to  the  depth  of  stu 
pidity — now  full  of  "'starts  ana  flows"  as  the  crime- 
burthened  Macbeth  As  she  rode  home,  in  perfect  silence, 
Jie  evil  eye  of  her  companion  watched  her  stealthily.  Her 


TH£     YOUNG     MOURNER.  225 

cheek  was  pale  and  hollow,  and  her  eye  sunken  and  heavv. 
Vet  sometimes  her  eyes  would  lighten  as  with  sudden  terror, 
ii'kc  those  of  a  startled  hare,  and  her  cheek  would  flush  and 
fede.  The  road  was  broad,  yet  shadowy,  from  the  meeting 
of  the  branches  of  the  huge  trees  overhead.  And  so  soon 
as  the  sun  went  down  it  became  too  dusky  to  permit  him  to 
see  the  flickering  and  sinking  of  the  fire  in  her  eye  and  cheek, 
but  he  watched  her  closely,  nevertheless.  Suddenly  he  saw 
her  sway  to  and  fro  in  the  saddle,  like  a  reed  blown  by  the 
wind.  Then,  ere  he  could  spring  to  her  aid,  the  reins  dropped 
from  her  hands,  and  she  fell  from  the  horse,  her  foot  catch 
ing  in  the  stirrup.  The  well-trained  palfrey  stopped,  and 
stood  without  so  much  as  lifting  a  hoof.  With  a  deep  curse, 
Major  Cabell  threw  himself  from  his  steed,  and  raised  her, 
disengaging  her  foot  from  the  stirrup.  He  sat  down  on  a 
bank,  with  her  on  his  knees,  and  took  off  her  hat,  and  began 
to  feel  her  head,  neck  and  arms,  for  injuries.  It  seemed  im 
possible  to  tell  whether,  or  how  she  was  hurt.  The  carriages 
were  some  yards  behind,  and  concealed  by  a  turn  of  the  road. 
He  dipped  his  hand  in  a  run,  at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  and 
sprinkled  her  face  ;  and  before  the  carriages  arrived,  she  had 
opened  her  eyes,  and  sat  up.  She  said  that  she  was  not  hurt — 
that  it  was  only  a  fainting  spell,  such  as  she  had  had  at  tho 
piano.  But  her  voice  was  very  weak,  and  her  frame  trem 
bling,  and  her  general  manner  frightened.  She  placed  her 
hand  against  Major  Cabell's  chest,  partly  to  assist  herself  in 
rising,  partly  to  push  him  away,  and  stood  alone  upon  her 
feet,  until  her  father's  carriage  drew  up.  Then  she  said  she 
was  tired,  and  wished  to  get  in. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  sent  a  glance  of  impotent  rage  at  Major 
Cabell,  as  he  lifted  his  child  in — placing  her  in  the  vacant 
fourth  seat — the  other  three  being  occupied  by  his  wife,  eldest 
daughter,  and  himself. 

Zuleime  sat  next  to  her  sister,  and  opposite  Georgia  ;  and 
the  last  mentioned  lady  studied  her  vis-a-vis,  with  as  much 
interest,  and  with  far  more  curiosity  and  comprehension,  than 
Major  Cabell  had  exercised. 

The  girl  sat  perfectly  still,  and  quite  lost  to  all  around 
her.  But  Georgia  saw  that  it  was  the  fearful  stillness  of 
itlf-restrained  frenzy. 

They  reached  home  at  last.     Georgia  was  handed  out  first 


226  THE      YOUNG      MOURNER. 

she  waited  for  Zuleime,  who  followed.  She  wished  to  draw 
the  girl's  arm  within  her  own.  But  Zuleime,  turning  on  her 
a  dilated,  strained,  fiery  gaze,  fled  past  her  into  the  house. 
And  then  the  lady  saw,  with  a  shudder,  that  it  was  indeed 
the  fires  of  incipient  madness  that  kindled  the  lambent  flamo 
in  the  girl's  eyes ! 

When  they  were  all  assembled  in  the  parlor,  around  the 
evening  fire,  with  books,  and  music,  and  light  needle-work — 

"  Where  is  Zuleime  ?"  asked  her  father. 

"  She  has  retired  to  her  room,  very  much  fatigued,"  re 
plied  his  wife,  and  the  subject  dropped. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  family  gathered  around  the 
breakfast-table,  the  youngest  daughter  was  still  missing. 

"  Where  is  Zuleime  ?  Why  doesn't  Zuleime  come  1  Caro 
lyn,  have  you  seen  your  sister  this  morning  ?  How  is  she  ?" 
asked  old  Mr.  Clifton. 

Carolyn  replied  that  she  had  not  seen  her  since  the  pre« 
ceding  evening. 

"  Send  some  one,  then,  to  her  chamber,  to  see  how  she  is, 
and  whether  she  will  join  us  at  breakfast,  or  have  anything 
sent  up  to  her  room.  Or — stay!  Carolyn,  don't  send — go 
yourself,  my  love,  to  your  sister,  it  vrill  be  only  kind." 

Carolyn  left  the  table,  and  went  up  stairs,  and  after  in 
absence  of  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes,  returned,  and  announced, 
with  a  pale  cheek,  that  Zuleime's  chamber  had  not  been  oc 
cupied  during  the  night — that  she  herself  was  no  where  to  bo 
found  in  the  house — and  that  no  one  of  the  servants  had  seen 
her  since  the  evening  before  ! 

A  dreadful  suspicion  instantly  seized  upon  all  who  remem 
bered  her  wild  and  moody  looks  and  manners  of  the  preceding 
few  days  ;  and  they  simultaneously  arose  from  the  table,  and 
with  looks  of  alarm,  dispersed  in  various  directions,  in  quest 
of  the  missing  girl. 

The  house,  kitchen,  Dut-buildings,  negro  quarters,  garden, 
vineyard,  orchard,  the  plantation  and  the  woods  were  succes 
lively  and  vainly  searched. 

Messengers  were  dispatched  to  Hardbargain  and  to  the 
neighboring  plantations,  with  inquiries  that  proved  fruitless. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  ran  up  and  down  the  house  and  grounds 
like  one  distracted. 

At  las^  noar  night,  traces  were  discovered  of  tho  lost  one. 


THE     YOUNG     MOURNER.  227 

Cpon  the  edge  of  the  stream,  where  the  banks  were  soft  and' 
deep,  small  foot-prints  were  seen — and  half-way  down  the ' 
bank  her  little  slipper  was  found,  with  its  toe  deep  in  tho 
mud,  and  the  heel  sticking  up,  as  if  lost  there  in  the  down 
ward  run  of  its  owner — and  from  the  branch  of  a  sapling 
near,  a  shrec,  ?f  her  crimson  dress  fluttered,  as  if  caught  and 
torn  off  in  the  same  swift  descent. 

Old  Mr.  Clifton  walked  down  there,  to  see  the  spot ;  but 
he  was  carried  back. 

And  before  the  next  sun  arose,  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  had 
her  heart's  first  desire. 

She  was  a  widow 


228  CONFESSION, 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

CONFESSION. 

T  was  so  young — 1  loved  him  so — I  had 
No  mother — God  forgot  me — and  1  fc.l ! 

BBOWNING— BLOT  ON  THE  'SCUTCHEOH. 

A  RETROSPECT  of  several  hours  is  necessary  here.  You 
will  remember  that  during  the  drive  home  from  Hardbargain, 
Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  had  watched  Zuleime  with  much  in 
terest  and  curiosity,  and  with  more  perspicuity.  When  the 
unfortunate  girl  had  sprung  from  the  carriage,  and  fled  up 
the  steps  into  the  house,  Mrs.  Clifton  had  followed  her.  In 
stead  of  going  up  into  her  chamber,  she  had  passed  directly 
through  the  hall,  and  gone  out  at  the  back-door — Georgia 
having  kept  near  her.  There  was  the  kitchen  garden  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  and  then  the  vineyard,  and  then  the 
orchard — through  all  these  she  successively  passed,  with  the 
same  wild,  hurried  gait,  and  entered  the  forest  beyond,  and 
descended  into  the  deep  glen,  through  which  the  mountain- 
Btream  roared.  It  was  very  difficult  to  follow  the  reckless 
steps  of  the  fugitive  down  this  rough  declivity,  and  while 
cautiously  descending,  with  the  aid  of  projecting  fragments 
of  rock  and  smaller  branches  of  trees  and  bushes,  Georgia 
lost  sight  of  the  girl.  When  she  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
gorge,  through  which  the  torrent  raged  and  raved,  Zuleime 
was  no  where  to  be  seen. 

The  night  was  very  dark,  and  though  a  few  large,  brilliant 
stars  were  to  be  seen  directly  over  head,  yet  low  from  the 
horizon,  heavy,  black  masses  of  clouds  were  slowly  rolling 
up.  And  the  wind  moaned  and  died  away  at  intervals — 
prophetic  of  the  winter's,  storm.  The  single,  large  stars 
overhead  were  reflected  in  the  stream — not  clearly  and 
calmly,  but  plunging  and  leaping  with  the  wild  water.  The 
banks  each  side  Jay  shrouded  in  gloom  and  mystery,  rocks 


CONFESSION.  229 

and  trees  indistinctly  blended  together  in  dark  and  sombre 
hues.  The  everlasting  mountains  stood  around,  vast,  vague, 
and  awful.  The  seven  white  peaks  gleamed  up  in  the  back 
ground,  like  the  ghostly  genii  of  the  scene.  A  shiver  of 
superstitious  fear  shook  the  frame  of  Georgia,  and  she  had 
turned  to  retrace  her  steps  home,  when  a  sound  between  a 
moan  and  a  suffocating  sob  arrested  her  purpose.  She  crept 
towards  the  spot  whence  the  sound  'proceeded,  and  there, 
half  hidden  in  the  deep  gloom  of  overhanging  willows,  she 
dimly  discerned  the  figure  of  the  unhappy  girl,  bending  over 
the  stream,  and  gazing  intently  upon  the  water,  where  the 
reflection  of  the  stars  leaped  and  plunged  with  the  waves. 
As  if  communing  with  herself,  she  murmured — "  There  is 
peace  there  !  There  is  peace  there  !"  Then  her  form  bent 
lower,  her  gaze  grew  more  earnest  and  intense,  as  though 
body,  soul  and  spirit  were  irresistibly  fascinated,  drawn 
down  by  the  glamour  of  the  water  !  And — "  There  is  peace, 
deep  peace  there,"  she  muttered !  How  stormy  must  have 
been  the  soul  that  saw  deep  peace  in  the  raging  torrent ! 
Her  eyes  shone  in  the  dusk  with  a  bright,  phosphoric  light, 
9,nd  still  pouring  their  splendor  upon  the  dark,  wild  water, 
she  murmured — "  Peace !  deep  peace."  Suddenly  up  flew 
her  arms,  and  she  sprang  forward. 

The  ready  hand  of  Georgia  caught  her  shoulder  and  pulled 
her  back,  exclaiming — 

"  Mad  girl !     What  are  you  about  to  do  ?" 

Znlcime  sprang  around  with  her  eyes  all  wide  and  ablaze, 
like  one  suddenly  waking  up  from  a  terrible  dream,  and  not 
yet  quite  brought  to  consciousness.  Georgia  drew  her  away 
'from  the  dangerous  proximity  of  the  torrent.  Zuleime  threw 
her  hands  to  her  head  with  sudden  recollection  and  intensity 
of  consciousness,  and  sunk  down  at  the  feet  of  the  lady, 
clasping  her  knees,  and  exclaiming — 

"  Oh  !  you  don*t  know  what  you've  done !  Why  did  you 
pluck  me  back  !  There  was  peace  there  !  The  only  peace 
left  for  me!" 

"  You  are  frantic,  miserable  girl !  What  is  the  meaning 
of  this  madness  ?"  asked  Georgia,  in  a  stern,  curt  tone. 
Convulsive  sobs,  shaking  as  with  a  tempest  the  form  of  the 
girl,  alone  answered  her. 

"  What  will  your  father— what  will  your  intended  hns- 


230  CONFESSION. 

band  think  of  this  ?  Say !  Speak  !  What  do  you  suppose 
Major  Cabell — " 

"  Oh  !  do  not  speak  of  him  !"  gasped  the  girl. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  this  conduct'" 
eneered  Georgia. 

"Mamma — "  commenced  Zuleime  but  her  voice  brcke 
down. 

"  Zuleime  !  come     get  up  and  come  home  !" 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  no  !     Not  home  !     Never  home  again !" 

"  Once  more,  what  am  I  to  think  of  this  frantic  be 
haviour. 

"Mamma!" 

"  Don't  call  me  mamma,  if  you  please !  It  may  not  be 
pleasant  or  politic,  to  acknowledge  that  tender  relationship. 
feut  explain  yourself,  lest  I  bring  you  to  those  who  will  de 
mand  the  explanation  with  less  forbearance !" 

"  Mercy  !  mercy  !  I  will  tell  you  anything !  everything ! 
Only  do  not  kill  my  father  with  the  story !" 

«  Speak,  then !" 

"  Lady—" 

"Well!" 

But  some  feeling  stronger  than  fear,  gripped  her  near* 
and  stopped  her  speech. 

"  Zuleime !     How  long  will  you  try  my  patience  V 

"  Madam — " 

Another  hesitation. 

"  What,  then  ?" 

"  I  have  been — a  wife !  I  am — a  widow !  I  am  fated 
to  be—" 

"  Well,"  asked  Georgia,  in  a  deep-drawn  treath  between 
her  teeth,  "  you  are  fated  to  be- — " 

"  Jl  mother  ["  breathed  the  girl,  in  a  dying  voice,  cover 
ing  EerTace  with  both  hands,  and  sinking  lower  on  the 
ground. 

There  was  a  long,  deep  pause,  filled  up  with  the  roar  of 
the  torrent  and  tha  moan  of  the  rising  wind.  Suddenly 
up  sprang  Zuleime,  with  fire  in  her  eyes,  and  made  a  dash 
towards  the  water.  The  swift  arm  of  Georgia  caught  and 
dragged  her  back.  No  word  was  spoken  yet.  The  impulse 
of  frenzy  passed  off,  and  Zuleime  sunk  into  her  old 
posture. 


CONFESSION.  231 

"  Get  up,"  at  last  said  Georgia,  half-shaking,  half-putting 
the  girl  upon  her  feet.  "  Get  up  and  come  with  me." 

And  she  drew  her  to  a  fragment  of  rock,  at  a  safer  iis- 
tance,  pushed  her  down  on  the  seat,  and  dropped  herself  by 
her  side. 

"  Now,  tell  me  of  this,"  sho  commanded,  in  a  hard,  curt 
tone.  "  You  were  married  ?" 

«  Yes,  yes!" 

"  Who  was  your  husband  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  know !  You  must  know !  He  who  died  in 
fonder  field  of  blood,  under  the  tomahawk  of  the  Shosho- 
nowa — I  am  very  wretched  !" 

"  Stay  ! — is  this  true — about  the  marriage,  I  mean  ?" 

"True  as  God's  Word!" 

"  Certainly  the  marriage  was  not  legal  without  your 
father's  consent,  and  would  have  been  annulled  by  him.  But 
now  he  will  permit  his  consent  to  be  supposed.  Let's  see ! 
the  widow  of  an  army  officer  entitled  to  his  half-pay,  per 
haps  ;  I  do  not  know — perhaps  to  a  pension,  too,  as  he  died 
in  the  field  of  battle.  Zuleime,  upon  the  whole,  I  think  that 
you  were  rash  to  attempt  suicide.  Your  position  and  pros 
pects  are  not  so  bad.  If 'Major  Cabell  is  anxious  to  possess 
you,  now  that  he  supposes  you  to  be  a  maudlin,  love- sick 
girl,  grieving  yourself  to  death  over  the  grave  of  your  lover, 
he  will  be  quite  as  willing  to  marry  you  a  year  hence,  when 
he  knows  you  to  be  the  widow  of  Captain  Fairfax — for  that, 
I  understand,  was  his  rank  when  he  fell.  Come,  girl,  live ! 
Acknowledge  your  marriage,  like  a  truthful  woman  !  Bring 
your  child  into  God's  world  like  a  Christian  woman !  And 
after  a  sufficient  time  has  elapsed,  marry  Major  Cabell,  like 
a  sensible  woman !  For  I  do  assure  you,  that  the  gallant 
Major  is  sufficiently  enamored  of  your  young  beauty  to  wait 
that  length  of  time,  if  compelled  to  do  so." 

"  Ah,  yes  3  I  think  he  is  enamored  of  me  as  the  Shosho- 
nowa  was  of  poor  Frank's  hair!"  bitterly  said  the  girl. 

"  This  marriage  must  be  announced  at  once  !  Who  per 
formed  the  ceremony  ?" 

"  Old  Mr.  Saunders,  the  Baptist  preacher." 

"  What !     He  who  was  found  dead  in  his  bed. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  was  he  !" 

"Pity  for  your  sake  that  he  is  dead!    But,  you  doubtless 


V 


232  CONFESSION. 

had  some  confidant,  some  witness — Kate  Kavanagh,  perhaps, 
or  some  one  else?  Say!  speak!  There  was  some  witness 
to  your  marriage,  who  can  be  produced  to  prove  it  ?" 

"  No  !     There  was  none  !     It  was  so  sudden  !" 

"  None  ! — no  proof  of  your  marriage  ?  Yet  stop — stay  ! — 
(here  is  a  chance  yet,  I  believe  ;  I  do  not  know.  You  were 
married  with  a  license,  of  course  ?" 

"Yes,  yes!" 

"  The  county  clerk  who  issued  it  will  probably  remember 
the  occurrence.  That  will  be  something  in  your  favor, 
though,  alas !  only  imperfect,  circumstantial  evidence ;  for 
the  mere  taking  out  of  a  license  is  no  conclusive  proof  of  a 
marriage." 

"  Ah,  great  or  small,  as  proof  it  is  of  nc*  avail.  Tho 
license  was  procured  blank,  for  Carolyn  and  Archer,  because 
be  had  forgotten  her  full  name,  and  it  was  afterwards  filled 
out  with  our  names." 

"No  matter.  You  Were  married  with  it1  And  now  I 
remember  a  saving  thing !  The  clergyman  wJ*o  married  you 
of  course  affixed  his  certificate  of  marriage  to  the  licence,  and 
gave  it  to  you.  Where  is  it  ?  All  depends  D«W  upon  that. 
Where  is  it  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know  !  I  never  saw  it !  If  th*  parson  ga\$ 
one,  probably  Frank  took  charge  of  it !" 

Again  a  pause  fell  between  them,  and  the  noises  of  the 
wind  and  waters  arose  in  gloomy  concert.-  A*  last  Georgia 
spoke — 

I       "  Miserable  jirl !     And.  so  you  have  nja_p_roef  whatever  of 
this  asserted  marriage  ?"— 

"  None  !  none  !  But  oh,  what  does  that  matter,  after  all  ? 
God  knows  that  we  loved,  and  were  married,  9*  He  knows 
that  we  will  soon  be  reunited!" 

"  Wretched  girl !  who  will  credit  the  story  ?" 

"No  one  in  the  world,  perhaps!  But,  ah !  what  odds1 
Could  the  proving  of  my  marriage  bring  him  back  to  life,  or 
give  my  father  happiness  ?" 

"Most  wretched  girl !  You  seem  quite  lost  to  i}\*  shame 
you-have  brought  upon  yourself!  the  dishonor  you  have 
brought  upon  your  family !" 

"  Ah,  go  on !  You  cannot  say  anything  to  me  so  bittar  34 
ST"  heart  is  saying  all  the  time!'* 


CONFESSION.  283 

"  Your  father  !  Your  old,  gray-haired  father  !  to  bring 
him  to  shame  in  his  old  age  !  Can  he  survive  the  knowledge 
of  your  fall  ?" 

"  I  know  he  cannot !     I  know  it !     Oh,  oh !" 

"  Carolyn,  too !  To  destroy  all  her  prospects  in  life . 
Who  will  ever  wed  the  sister  of  a  supposed — " 

"  Ah,  spare  me  that !  Why  did  you  pluck  me  back !  the 
river  would  have  covered  all !" 

"  Because  I  did  not  know  or  dream  your  folly !  Zuleimo, 
your  father,  who  could  bear  your  death,  could  never  survive 
your  disgrace !" 

"Oh,  God,  I  feel  it!" 

"  Zuleime — you  must  die  /" 

A  pause,  when  but  for  the  roar  of  the  torrent,  and  the 
howl  of  the  wind,  their  very  hearts  might  have  been  heard 
plowly  beating. 

"  Zuleime,  you  must  not  live  to  bring  shame  upon  us ! 
i*ou  must  die !'' 

•<  Ah  !  Wrhy  did  you  hinder  me  when  it  would  not  have 
been  a  crime  ?" 

"  VV  hat  mean  you  ?" 

"  I  was  mad  then  !  I  knew  not  what  I  did !  God  would 
not  have  charged  me  with  my  death  !  I  am  sane  now ! — sane, 
though  most  wretched!"  ~» 

"  Zuleime,  you  must  die ! — not  jn  reality,  but  in  appear- \ 
ance.  It  must  be  believed  that  you  are  dead— deacTby  your  j 
owrTact,  as  you  intended.  And  I  will  provide  for  yourJ 
escape  and  your  future  support. 

"  Alas  !  lady,  what  is  it  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  Deceive 
my  poor  father,  so  cruelly,  and  never,  never  undeceive  him 
again  ?  And  faever,  never  see  him  again  ?" 

"  Lost  girl !  if  I  had  not  saved  you  an  hour  ago,  would 
you  have  been  alive  to  ask  the  question  ?" 

"  Ah,  no  '  But,  oh,  my  father !  Who  will  comfort 
him  ?" 

"Who  would  have  comforted  him  had  you  effected  your 
purpose  this  hour  ?  What  would  comfort  him  for  your  degra 
dation  ?  Foolish  girl,  that  will  console  him  for  your  supposed 
death,  which  never  could  console  him  for  your  fall — time. 
Besides,  if  you  are  supposed  to  be  dead,  it  will  not  only  save 
as  all  from  shame,  but  your  father  will  be  your  heir,  and 


234  CONFESSION. 

ran  appropriate  that  thirty  thousand  dollars  to  the  pay  men  i 
of  his  debts.  Zuleiine,  it  seems  to  me  you  owe  us  all  this 
sacrifice." 

«•  I — I  am  very  weak  and  miserable.  I — I  scarcely  know 
right  from  wrong !  Do  what  you  please  with  me,  only  con 
sole  my  father!" 

"  And  at  any  rate,  girl,  this  plan  is  far  better  than  the  self- 
destruction  you  meditated  awhile  ago.  By  this  plan  you  will 
be  able  to  save  your  child." 

"  Ah  !  to  what  end  ?     To  be  as  miserable  as  its  mother  ?" 

"  Zuleime  !  time  presses.  To-night  you  must  journey  to 

L ,  and  take  the  stage  thence  to  Richmond.  I  have 

a  negro  here  on  whose  secrecy  I  can  depend  ;  he  shall  take 

two  horses  from  the  stable  and  convey  you  to  L in 

time  to  meet  the  Richmond  stage.  I  will  give  you  a  letter 
that  you  must  deliver  to  its  address  as  soon  as  you  reach  the 
city.  Get  up  now  and  come  with  me,"  said  Georgia,  taking 
her  hand  to  assist  her  in  rising. 

The  unhappy  girl  mechanically  yielded  herself  to  the 
guidance  of  "  the  dark  ladie,"  and  they  ascended  the  glen. 

Retracing  their  steps  through  forest,  field,  orchard,  vine 
yard  and  garden,  they  reached  the  house,  and  entered  by  the 
back  door.  The  hall  was  deserted  ;  the  family  being  at  that 
hour  gathered  around  their  parlor  fire,  and  the  servants  being 
at  supper. 

"  Zuleime,  go  quietly  up  into  your  chamber  and  get  ready, 
while  I  go  down  and  find  the  man  I  spoke  of,"  said  Georgia. 

Zuleime  mechanically  obeyed .  The  next  hour, 

while  her  father  and  sister  and  friends  were  enjoying  their 
happy  evening  reunion  in  the  warm,  bright  parlor,  the 
wretched  Zuleime,  through  the  dark  night,  and  the  howling 
wind,  commenced  her  journey.  Of  what  followed  the  di>- 
oo very  of  her  bss,  you  are  already  possessed. 


A     DOMESTIC     SCENE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  DOMESTIC  SCENE 

A  light,  commodious  chamber, 
Looking  out  to  the  hills,  where  the  shine 
Of  the  great  sun  may  enter. — MARY  HOWITT. 

NEARLY  twelve  months  have  passed  since  the  death  of  Mr. 
(Jlifton.  It  is  Octobei,  the  most  glorious  month  in  the  year, 
when  the  gorgeous  beauty  of  nature  more  than  satisfies — 
when  it  enraptures  the  soul. 

I  shall  introduce  you  into  a  chamber,  whose  three  large 
windows  look  out  upon  the  scene  of  glorious  magnificence, 
only  to  be  found  when  mountains,  vales  and  forests  wear 
their  gorgeous  autumn  livery.  It  is  a  very  large  apartment, 
so  long  and  lofty,  that  the  great  four-post  bedstead,  standing 
with  its  head  against  the  upper  end,  is  not  in  the  way.  At 
the  lower  end  of  the  room,  there  is  an  old-fashined  fire-place, 
where  an  oak  fire  is  burning.  The  floor  is  covered  with  an 
ingrain  carpet,  of  warm,  rich  hues.  The  bedstead,  lounge 
and  cushioned  chairs  are  clothed  with  dark,  bright  chintz. 
The  windows  are  curtained  with  orange-colored  damask, 
which  give  a  mellow,  autumnal  tone  to  the  atmosphere  of  the 
room.  The  curtains  are  festooned  back,  to  admit  the  sun 
shine,  and  the  glorious  view  without. 

The  lounge  is  drawn  up  to  the  left  of  the  fire-place,  and 
Carolyn  Clifton,  in  deep  mourning,  reclines  upon  it.  She  is 
very  much  changed  since  we  saw  her  last.  There  is  scarcely 
a  trace  of  her  disease  left — only  a  few  pits  scattered  thinly 
over  the  lower  part  of  the  chin  and  throat.  But  she  is  very, 
very  fragile,  and  her  thin,  white  face  is  almost  spectral,  in 


223  A      DOMESTIC      SCKNK. 

contrast  with  her  black  dress.  Her  fair  hair  has  grown  out 
richer,  sunnier  in  hue  than  before.  It  is  just  long  enough  to 
turn,  in  natural,  smooth  ringlets,  that  reach  to  her  throat. 
And  she  wears  it  so.  And  those  bright  curls  soften  and 
shade  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  cheek.  The  expression  of 
her  countenance  has  changed  also.  It  wears  a  subdued, 
almost  patient  air  of  suffering.  She  is  beautiful,  although 
now  that  the  roundness  and  bloom  of  her  cheek  arc  gone, 
she  does  not  think  so.  She  is  beautiful,  as  she  lies  there 
contemplating,  with  remorseful  tenderness,  a  miniature  that 
she  has  drawn  from  her  bosom. 

In  the  cushion  chair,  on  the  right  of  the  fire-place,  sits 
Catherine  Kavanagh.  She  has  also  changed  within  the  year. 
Her  form  is  fuller,  rounder,  more  womanly.  Her  grave, 
almost  stern  features,  have  softened  into  gentleness.  Her 
voice  is  softer  and  deeper.  Its  tones  indeed  are  very  beauti 
ful,  and  modulated  with  every  shade  of  feeling.  She  wearn 
her  hair  in  the  same  old  style,  parted  over  the  forehead,  rip 
pling  down  in  dark,  bright  wavelets  around  her  cheeks,  and 
carried  behind,  and  woven  with  the  back  hair  into  a  large 
plait,  and  then  rolled  round  and  round  into  a  succession  of 
rings — a  rich,  dark,  burnished  mass  of  hair — 

"Golden  where  the  sunlight  played, 
But  where  the  tendrils  sought  the  shade, 
Dark,  but  very  beautiful." 

Her  dress  of  dark  brown  stuff,  with  the  little  white  throat- 
ruffle,  and  the  black  silk  apron,  is  not  very  becoming  to  her. 
But  she  thinks  too  little  of  her  personal  appearance,  to  care 
for  any  quality  in  her  clothing  beyond  neatness  and  comfort. 
She  is  knitting  very  leisurely,  stopping  occasionally  to  mea 
sure  the  stocking  she  is  engaged  upon  with  the  finished  one 
which  lies  upon  her  lap.  Kate  is  silent  and  thoughtful.  All 
her  life,  up  to  this  date,  has  been  passed  in  the  ministry  to 
sorrow — yes,  to  all  sorts  of  sorrow — to  the  suffering  arising 
from  vice — to  the  despair  caused  by  evil  passions — to  com 
mon  illness — to  pestilence  forsaken  of  all  but  her — to  death  ! 
Yes  !  But  little  turned  of  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  to  all 
these  forms  of  human  misery  had  she  been — not  a  ministei 
ing  angel,  but  a  ministering  child  and  woman — that  ministry 
of  sorrow  had  filled  up  ill  her  years,  from  early  childhood, 
to  this  hour.  Now  her  days  were  passed  in  soothing  and 
Peering  the  solitude  and  depression  of  her  invalid  coin 


A     DOMESTIC     SCENE.  237 

Damon.  And  Kate  was  grave  and  thoughtful,  because  shi 
.vas  tempted  to  think  that  life  was  made  up  of  nothing  else 
but  trouble.  Her  hope  in  happiness  beyond  her  experience 
Tas  faint.  Her  faith  was  dim.  And  no  wonder.  It  seemed 
tiinc  she  saw  some  one  else's  happiness,  if  not  her  own.  It 
was  hard  to  pour  the  words  of  faith,  hope  and  cheerfulness 
into  the  car  of  another,  when  the  fountain  in  her  own  heart 
was  failing.  It  was  only  a  temporary  darkening  and  failing 
of  the  spirit.  A  silent,  earnest  prayer,  and  all  was  clear 
and  strong  again.  The  room  was  provocative  of  thought,  if 
not  of  pensiveness.  It  was  so  still  and  warm  and  mellow, 
between  the  fire  and  the  golden  sunshine  coming  softened 
through  the  curtains.  And  both  girls  wore  silent,  while 
Kate  leisurely  plied  her  knitting-needles,  and  Carolyn  con 
templated  the  miniature.  At  last  Miss  Clifton  spoke — 

"  Catherine,  look  upon  that  face.  Study  it.  Should  you 
believe,  now,  that  the  owner  of  that  beautiful  face  could  be 
unrelenting,  unforgiving?"  And  she  passed  the  miniature 
to  her  companion.  Kate  received  it — glanced  at  it.  It  was 
a  faithful  likeness  of  Archer  Clifton.  And  those  features, 
so  long  unseen,  and  now  suddenly  revealed,  thrilled  with  such 
electric  power  to  the  heart  of  the  girl,  that  after  the  fii>t 
recognizing  glance,  she  instantly  returned  it.  And  though 
her  heart  had  paused  in  its  pulsations,  and  now  throbbed 
thick  and  fast,  she  answered,  calmly — 

"  He  is  not  unrelenting  or  unforgiving,  Miss  Clifton." 
"  Oh  !  he  is  !  he  is  !     It  has  been  fifteen  months  since  we 
parted  in  anger,  and  no  word  or  sign  from  him  yet.     Oh ! 
Kate,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  1  think  he  truly  loves  you,  Miss  Carolyn." 
"  Oh  !   he  did — he  did,  but  I  scorned  and  insulted  him,  and 
it  is  past,  past !" 

"  There  is  no  past  tense  to  real  love,  lady." 
"  Ah,  Catherine,  you  speak  of  what  you  have  Lad  no  ex 
perience  in.     My  scorn  killed  his  love." 

"  Real  love  is  immortal,  lady,  it  cannot  be  killed." 
"  Ah,  child,  you  speak  without  knowledge."  . 

"  Without  experimental  knowledge,  Miss  Clifton.     And  alk 
«l\e  highest  truths  we  have  are  obtained  without  experimen-  > 
tul  knowledge.     I  know  that  true  affection  is  undying,  by  the 
«5ame  light  that  without  the  BTBle  shows  me  that  God  exists  ,' 
, — that  He  made  all  souls,  and  that  all  souls  are  immortal,  j 
It  is  one  of  the  *  self-evident'  truths.     Ah,  Miss  Clifton,  fua/' 


238  A      DOMESTIC      SCENE. 

affection  can  no  more  be  killed  by  scorn,  than  an  angel  tould 
be  overcome  by  a  demon,  than  Heaven  could  be  conquered  by 
hell.  In  the  contest  between  true  affection  and  scorn,  it  is 
affection  must  conquer — scorn  must  yield.  It  must-  ba-£o, 
lady.  The  heavens  are  pledged  to  it.  The  sovereignty  of 
the  right  is  involved  in  it.  And  when,  in  such  a  contest,  af 
fection  fails,  it  is  because  it  never  was  true.  No,  lady,  true 
affection  is  never  conquered.  It  is  scorn  that  is  conquered. 
It  is  scorn  that  has  yielded  now.  You  do  not  scorn  him  now, 
lady." 

"No— I  would  I  could!" 

"  Then,  in  the  death  of  your  own  scorn  see  the  immortal 
ity  of  his  love.  He  will  come  back  to  you.  He  will  come 
back  the  first  free  moment  that  he  has." 

"Ah,  Catherine !  In  all  this  fifteen  months  he  has  not 
written  to  me." 

"  You  do  not  know  that,  Miss  Carolyn.  7  believe  that  he 
has  written  to  you,  and  that  the  letter  has  been  lost.  You 
know  how  irregular  and  uncertain  the  mail  is  from  that 
distant  frontier." 

"  Catherine  !  I  have  been  thinking  of  writing  to  him 
What  is  your  opinion  ?  What  would  you  advise  me  to 
do?" 

''  Not  for  the  world,  lady  !  For,  trust  me,  for  every  step 
I  of  advance  a  woman  makes,  a  man  of  high  honor  and  fine 
( sensibilities  retreats." 

Miss  Clifton's  brow  flushed,  and  she  made  a  gesture,  of  im 
patience,  as  she  exclaimed — 

"  Then  why,  why  knowing  that,  does  he  not  write  ?" 

"  Because,  perhaps,  his  first  letters  miscarried,  and  he 
stopped  under  the  supposition  that  you  would  not  answer  him. 
And  then,  lady,  under  all  these  circumstances,  the  stiff  pen 
and  the  cold  paper  cannot  convey  all  ihe  burning  words  he 
would  have  to  pour  out  at  your  feet.  He  will  como !" 

"  '  He  will  come.'  Ah  !  in  that  very  phrase  is  a  knell 
deeper  than  all  the  rest !  He  will  come  !  And  what  a 
spectre  he  will  see  in  me  !  He  cannot  continue  to  love  me  ! 
Impossible  !  Impossible  !  He  can  never  love  such  a  faded 
and  scarred  ruin  as  I  am." 

"  Dear  Miss  Clifton,  I  have  told  you  so  often  that  you  arc 
not  a  ruin  !  Your  face  is  very  lovely,  indeed  it  is  !  Fair  and 
delicate  and  pensive,  and  far  more  attractive  to  all  good 
heart*  rhan  ever  it  WAS  in  its  \\\rr\\  Klrmm." 


A     DOMESTIC     SCENE.  239 

"Ah,   but   faded — faded — faded!"    mournfully    replied 
Carolyn. 

"  And  then,  dear  lady,  true  affection  is  of  the  soul.  It 
has  been  said  that  love  is  blind.  It  is  not  so.  Love  has 
I)h  ine  eyes,  and  creates  the  beauty  that  it  looks  upon.  He 
will  love  you  the  more  for  the  calamity  and  sorrows  that  havo 
fallen  upon  you.  He  will  see  a  deeper  beauty  in  your  pen- 
sive  face,  and  his  love  will  make  it  real." 

"  Oh  !  impossible,  I  tell  you  !  Impossible  !  The  sight  of 
me  would  shock  him.  He  would  turn  away." 

"  Lady,  do  you  love  your  cousin  ?" 

«  Love  him?     Ah,  God  !" 

"  Dear  lady,  if  he  had  returned  from  the  frontier  with  the 
loss  of  an  arm,  a  leg,  or  an  eye— -or  with  the  hideous  scar  of 
a  sword  cut  across  cheek  and  brow,  could  you  have  turned 
from  him  revolted  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  no.  no  !  Oh  !  Heaven,  no  !  I  should  have 
done  all  I  could  to  convince  him  that  he  was  beautiful 
to  me  still — that  I  loved  him  the  deeper  for  his  misfor 
tunes  !" 

"  Then,  dear  lady,  judge  his  noble  heart  by  your  own." 

"  Ah,  but  you  said  yourself,  just  now,  when  advising  mo 
not  to  write,  that  men  feel  so  differently  from  women  !" 

"  Yes,  but  not  in  tenderness — not  in  constancy  !" 

"  There  is  the  boy  coming  from  the  post  office,  Catherine  ! 
It  is  strange — it  is  strange — but  though  I  have  been  disap 
pointed  a  hundred  times,  I  still  hope,  and  the  coining  of  every 
mail  makes  my  heart  pause  !  Go,  dear  Catherine,  and  see 
what  there  is." 

Kate  rolled  up  her  knitting,  and  dropped  it  into  a  littl 
straw  basket,  and  went  below. 

"  Only  one  letter,  an'  the  Pos'-Master  say  how  it  war  for 
Miss  Carolyn,"  said  the  boy  below  stairs. 

A  letter  for  her  at  last !  Carolyn's  heart  stopped  almost 
to  death,  until  Kate  ran  back  up  the  stairs,  entered  the  room, 
and  placed  the  letter  in  her  hands. 

"  It  is  from  llichmond,"  she  said,  in  a  disappointed  tone, 
as  she  opened  it. 

"  From  my  Aunt  Cabell,"  she  added,  and  'jegan  to  read 
it  while  Kate  resumed  her  knitting. 

"  I  hope  your  friends  are  all  well,"  said  Catherine. 

"  Yes — "  replied  Miss  Clifton  ;  and  then  a  smile  of  amuse- 
inen*  flit^d  over  her  face — and  still  running  her  eye  down 


240  A      DOMESTIC      SCENE. 

the  letter,  she  continued — "  My  Aunt  Cabell  writes  me  that 
my  excellent  step-dame,  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton,  is  now  the 
reigning  belle  of  Richmond — the  most  beautiful  woman,  the 
most  charming  musician,  the  most  fascinating  waltzer,  and 
the  most  elegant  equestrain  in  the  city  !  She  passes  for  a 
wealthy  (!)  young  widow — and  her  credit  is  unlimited,  aim 
her  debts  and  her  extravagance,  of  course,  unbounded.  She 
occupies  a  whole  suit  of  rooms  in  the  most  expensive  hotel  in 
the  city,  and  entertains  around  her,  both  day  and  night,  a 
host  of  adoring  worshipers.  She  has  cut  her  father — worthy 
man — dead  !  She  is  going  to  bring  down  a  party  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  to  spend  Christmas  at  her  country-seat,  (!) 
White  Cliffs.  Now  what  do  you  think  of  that,  Catherine  ? 
Pray  Heaven  she  may  marry  soon,  and  not  wear  our  name 
l*/flg  enough  to  scandalize  it !  Mrs.  Cabell  goes  on  to  say, 
that  Mrs.  Georgia  cannot  Jpng  play  that  game — that  Archer 
Clifton  must  soon  return,  and  take  possession  of  his  property, 
when  it  will  be  arrested.  Alas !  she  does  not  know  that 
Captain  Clifton  is  as  much  under  the  dominion  of  that  dan 
gerous  woman  as  it  is  possible  to  be.  He  will  probably  be 
proud  to  leave  Mrs.  Clifton  in  possession  here  as  long  as  she 
finds  it  convenient  or  agreeable  to  stay.  Now,  what  do  you 
think  of  all  this,  Catherine  '?" 

"  Dear  lady,  I  know  that  you  feel  very  unpleasantly,  that 
all  those  gay  city  strangers  should  be  coming  down  here  at 
Christmas,  to  turn  the  quiet  house  into  a  hall  of  orgies 
But  I  do  not  see  how  you  can  prevent  it.  You  can  elude  it, 
though  !  You  can  go  to  Hardbargain,  you  know,  and  remain 
until  Mrs.  Georgia  and  her  guests  have  departed  again.  I 
would  do  that." 

"  No,  dear  Catherine,  there  will  be  no  necessity  for  that, 
either  '  My  Aunt  Cabell  has  anticipated  my  embarrassment, 
and  proposed  a  plan.  My  aunt  and  all  her  family  are  com 
ing  down  here  to  spend  the  months  of  October  and  Novem 
ber,  while  their  city  mansion  is  undergoing  repairs — paint 
ing,  papering,  and  so  on.  xVnd  she  proposes  that  I  shall 
return  with  her  at  the  first  of  December,  and  pass  the  Win 
ter  in  Richmond." 

«  And  will  you  go .?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  But,  Kate,  dear,  you  have  comforted 
ine  so  much,  and  aunt's  account  of  Mrs.  Georgia's  city  airs 
aas  diverted  me  so  much,  that  I  think  I  have  spirits  for  a 
tide  Go  order  *he  horses,  and  tell  Dandy  to  be  ready  to 


A     DOMESTIC     SCENE.  241 

attend  us.     We  will  go  up  to  Hardbargain  and  take  t«?a  with 
Aunt  Clifton,  and  amuse  her  with  this  letter !" 


Mrs.  Cabell  and  her  daughters,  attended  by  Major  Cabollj 
arrived  in  due  time,  and  were  received  with  great  pleasure 
by  their  orphaned  relative.  And  Catherine,  now  that  she 
was  no  longer  necessary  to  the  cheerfulness  of  Miss  Clifton, 
took  leave  and  returned  to  her  brother's  cot.  Life  in  the 
mansion,  and  life  in  the  hut,  like  day  and  night,  about  equally 
divided  the  girl's  experience — a  strange  lot,  to  be  ever  alter 
nating  between  luxury  and  refinement,  and  poverty  and 
coarseness.  And  though  it  was  a  wonderfully  strengthening 
discipline,  Kate  found  the  contrast  so  painful  as  to  wish 
that  life  would  change — in  some  way. 

A  month  passed  away — during  which  she  heard  nothing 
whatever  from  White  Cliffs.  She  was  therefore  in  toUl 
ignorance  of  what  was  going  on  there,  until  one  cold  morn 
ing  that  had  succeeded  a  snow-stormy  night,  while  she  was 
shoveling  away  the  snow  in  front  of  the  cottage  door,  Dandy 
rode  up  and  delivered  her  a  note  from  Miss  Clifton.  The 
note  ran  thus : 

"  DEAR  CATHERINE, — 

"I  am  going  to  leave  for  Richmond  with  Aunt  Clifton  to 
morrow  morning.  Come  over,  dear  girl,  and  let  me  take 
leave  of  you  before  I  start.  Come,  my  good,  wise  Catherine, 
for  I  want  to  consult  you  about  a  certain  matter. 

«  Your  friend  CAROLYN." 

Kate  saddled  her  pony  and  set  out,  attended  by  Dandy. 
As  soon  as  she  arrived  at  White  Cliffs,  she  was  invited  im 
mediately  up  into  Miss  Clifton's  room.  She  found  the  young 
lady  surrounded  with  trunks  and  bandboxes,  and  busy  with 
her  maids,  packing.  Carolyn  dismissed  her  attendants,  beg 
ged  Kate  to  be  seated,  and  sat  down  by  her.  After  a  few 
mutual  inquiries  about  health  and  so  on,  and  a  little  intro 
ductory  conversation,  and  some  considerable  hesitation,  Miss 
Clifton  said — 

"  Catherine !  I  think — I  hope  that  I  have  succeeded  at 
last  in  emancipating  myself  from  the  degrading  slavery  of 
that  old  love  &pell '  At  last  the  dread  sense  of  bereavement 
and  desolation  is  deadened.  .  •  •  If  I  wer« 


242  A      DOMESTIC      SCENE. 

to  sec  him  again,  however,  I  do  not  know  how  it  might 

be Perhaps,  though,  I  shall  never   see  him 

again Kate!  I  have  had  a  proposal  for  mar 
riage.  .  .  .  My  cousin  Major  Cabell !  ....  It 
was  at  least  generous  in  him,  all  things  considered  .  . 

Family  feeling,  I  suppose Kate,  I  think  of 

accepting  him ! We  owe  something  to  oui 

position  in  society My  Aunt  Cabell  has  been 

talking  to  me  about  it  for  a  month  past." 

Miss  Clifton  made  this  communication  in  a  hesitating, 
disjointed  manner  ;  while  Catherine  looked  and  listened  in 
grief  and  astonishment,  feeling  regret  amounting  almost  to 
remorse,  that  she  had  left  her  friend,  enfeebled  in  mind  and 
body,  so  long  under  the  influence  of  a  strong-willed 
thoroughly  worldly-minded  woman.  And  she  understood 
the  instinct  that  had  impelled  the  wavering  girl  to  send  for 
tier  to  steady  her.  And  then  athwart  these,  her  purest  emo 
tions,  swept  a  dark,  burning  impulse,  like  a  breath  of  ,hell. 
It  was  the  whisper  of  the  devil,  and  it  said  to  her, — "Agree 
with  her — agree  with  her!  Let  her  marry  another  if  she 
]  wishes,  and  thus  remove  the  greatest  impediment  that  sepa 
rates  you  from  the  love,  the  hope  of  Archer  Clifton. " 
Catherine  stood  for  a  moment  horrified  by  the  darkness  of 
the  temptation.  But  then  summoning  the  whole  strength 
-j  of  her  soul,  she  inwardly  exclaimed,  "Get  thee^behiud  ^me, 
Satan  !"  And  the  devil  fled  from  her. 
.  "  You  do  not  answer  me,  Catherine.  My  dear  girl,  I  have 
so  much  confidence  in  your  rectitude  of  mind !  Advise 
me!" 

"  Dear  Miss  Clifton,  never,  as  you  value  your  whole  life's 
peace  and  rectitude — never,  for  any  purpose  whatever — uu 
der  any  temptation  whatever — consent  to  marry  a  man  yo1.! 
do  not  love ;  never,  as  you  hope  for  earthly  content—  as  you 
trust  in  God — never  put  an  insurmountable  object  between 
yourself  and  one  you  love  !  How  criminal  to  become  a  wife, 
while  you  love  another  living  man !  How  terrible  to  find 
out,  when  it  is  too  late,  that  he  loves  you  still !  Perhaps 
from  year  to  year  to  long  for  the — !  Lady,  I  have  no  words 
strong  enough  to  express  to  you  all  that  I  feel  and  fear  on 
this  subject !  Grave  faults  sometimes  follow  little  errors ! 
I  would  fain  gain  your  promise  not  to  entertain  any  gentle 
man's  suit  until  you  have  met  again  with  Captain  Clifton 
V"ou  cannot  h^ve  long  to  wait.  He  must  return  to  settle  up 


A     DOMESTIC      SCENE.  243 

this  estate.     And  legal  business,  if  nothing  else,  must  bring 
you  together !" 

"  Alas !  alas  !  no  !  the  affairs  of  this  property  will  be  set 
tled  by  his  attorney.  Kate,  I  am  very  miserable!" 

"  Dear  lady,  I  know  it !  Do  not,  when  tempted  by  hope 
lessness,  do  that  which  you  may  regret  all  your  life  !  That 
which  may  shut  out  the  possibility  of  happiness  forever '  I 
wish  I  could  go  to  Richmond  with  you." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  could !  I  think  that  you  could  save  me 
from  danger,  Kate." 

"  I  think  you  want  an  honest  friend  near  you,  Miss  Clif 
ton  !  But,  one  thing  you  can  do — you  can  resolve  not  to 
form  any  matrimonial  engagement  until  you  have  again  met 
with  Captain  Clifton.  And  you  can  bind  your  resolution  by 
a  promise.  Promise  me,  dear  lady,  by  the  interest  I  take  in 
you,  to  hold  yourself  free  from  entanglements,  until  you  see 
your  cousin  !" 

"  Kate ! — yes,  I  solemnly  promise  you,  by  all  I  hold  sa 
cred,  that  I  will  do  as  you  advise  in  this  matter !  And, 
Kate,  enfeebled  as  I  am,  or  may  become,  in  mind  or  body,  I 
eannot  break  my  pledged  word !  Good  girl !  You  have 
saved  me  again  !  Oh,  Kate !  Kate  !  do  you  think  I  don't 
know  the  full  extent  of  your  disinterestedness  ?  Oh,  Kate  : 
noble  girl !  God  reward  you  !" 

Catherine  began  to  tremble  so  violently,  that  Miss  Clir'ton 
threw  her  arms  around  her,  and  pressed  her  to  her  bosom, 
whispering, 

"  Never  fear,  dear  girl !  sweet  girl !  I  will  not  breathe 
another  word  !  I  would  as  soon  sacrilegiously  snatch  the 
veil  from  the  sanctuary,  as  breathe  another  word  about  it !' 


When  Catherine  reached  home  in  the  afternoon,  she  found 
a  message  waiting  her,  from  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain. 
She  went  up  immediately  to  the  farm-house,  and  found  that 
lady  looking  very  happy. 

"  Catherine,  my  dear,  sit  down.  I  have  good  news.  I  have 
just  received  a  letter  from  Archer.  He  will  be  in  Richmond 
in  four  days  from  this !  But  his  duties  are  such  that  he  will 
not  br  able  to  leave  Richmond  for  some  weeks.  He  begs 
me  to  meet  him  there  !  He  has  been  promoted,  Kate  !  He 
is  now  Major  Clifton,  arid  has  been  appointed  aid-de-camp  to 
the  Governor!" 


244  A      DOMESTIC      SCENE. 

"  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,  madam,"  replied  Kate,  calmly, 
though  her  heart  stood  still  with  the  suddenness  of  this 
news.  "  You  will  send  over  and  inform  Miss  Clifton,  will 
you  not,  madam  ?" 

"  No,  I  think  not,  Catherine.  Why  excite  and  disturb 
her  on  the  eve  of  a  journey'?  Besides,  Catherine,  I  ha\e 
many  misgivings!  This  long  persistence  in  silence — hia 
never  mentioning  her  name  in  any  of  his  few  letters  to  me ' 
his  never  replying  to  the  letter  I  wrote  upon  the  subject! — • 
all  this  is  foreboding !  I  must  not  meddle  farther  in  this 
affair  until  I  have  seen  my  son,  and  can  judge  his  state  of 

inind  in  regard  to  it ! But,  Catherine, 

my  dear,  I  sent  for  you  for  this  :     I  am  going  to  Richmond 
on  Tuesday,  for  the  purpose  of  spending  some  weeks  near  my 
son.     I  need  a  female  companion,  and  I  have  your  grandfa 
ther's  and  your  brother's  consent  for  you  to  accompany  me ; 
that  is,  if  vou  are  willing.     Will  you  go  with  me,  Kate  w 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  so,  indeed,  Mrs.  Clifton !"  said 
the  young  girl. 

"  Then  return  home  at  once,  Kate,  and  prepare  for  the 
journey.  You  will  have  a  great  deal  to  do,  to  make  things 
comfortable  for  your  grandfather  and  brother  during  your 
absence,  and  to  get  yourself  ready  for  your  city  visit. 


IN     THE     CITY.  245 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IN  THE  CITY. 

In  a  proud  city  and  rich — 

A  fit}  fair  and  old, 
Filled  with  tiie  world's  most  costl;  tbjngs, 

Of  precious  stones  and  £old  ; 
Of  silks,  fine  wool,  and  spiceries, 

And  all  that's  bought  and  sold. — MARY  Howin. 

ON  !,«»T  arrival  at  Richmond,  Mrs.  Clifton  engaged  for  her 
self  and  Catherine  two  rooms — a  chamber  with  two  beds, 
and  a  neat  adjoining  parlor — in  a  quiet,  retired  boarding- 
house. 

Miss  Clifton  was  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Cabell,  in  the  most 
fashionable  quarter  of  the  city.  Captain  Clifton  had  not  yet 
arrived,  but  was  daily  expected.  Richmond  was  in  the  com 
mencement  of  the  fashionable  season,  and  was  already  quite 
full  of  gay  company.  Every  evening  witnessed  some  one  or 
two  grand  balls,  or  great  private  parties.  The  theatres  and 
the  concert  rooms  were  in  full  operation.  But  no  faint  echo 
of  all  these  various  forms  of  revelry  came  to  the  sequestered 
neighborhood  that  Mrs.  Clifton  had  chosen  for  her  retreat. 
No  news  of  the  fashionable  world  reached  her,  except  con 
stant  bulletins  of  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton's  progress  through 
society.  She  was  one  of  those  city  celebrities  whose  sayings 
and  doings  are  the  exciting  topic  of  all  classes.  Where  she 
went,  and  what  she  wore,  and  when  she  rode  out.  Whom 
she  cut  directly,  whom  she  smiled  upon,  whom  she  slighted, 
and  whom  she  received,  were  the  most  interesting  subjects 
of  discussion.  The  Belle  of  the  Rappahannock,  the  Dark 
Ladye,  the  Gipsy  "!BeauTy7"were  someof  "the"  many  names  she 
had  won.  All  these  matters  were  freely  and  lightly  com 
mented  upon  in  Mrs.  Clifton's  presence,  by  gentlemen  board 
ers,  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of  that  lady's  connexion 
with  the  reigning  toast  of  Richmond.  Mrs.  Clifton  rested 
two  days  before  calling  upon  Mrs.  Cabell  and  her  family 
Miss  Clifton  expressed  almost  as  much  surprise  as  pleasure 


246  IN      THE      CITY. 

at  the  sight  of  her  aunt,  but  forebore  to  question  her  motive 
in  coming  so  suddenly  to  the  city.  Perhaps  Carolyn  had 
beard  a  rumor  of  Major  Clifton's  preferment  and  expected 
arrival,  and  for  that  reason  was  silent.  Mrs.  Clifton  never 
named  the  subject  during  her  informal  call.  At  taking  leave 
she  left  her  address,  and  informed  her  niece  that  Kate 
Kavanach  was  in  town  with  her.  Carolyn  expressed  much 
pleasure  at  hearing  this,  and  promised  to  call  very  soon. 
The  very  next  day  Mrs.  Cabell  came  in  her  carriage,  and  in 
vited  and  urged  Mrs.  Clifton  and  her  protege  to  return  with 
her,  and  make  her  house  their  home  during  their  sojourn  in 
Richmond.  After  some  hesitation  and  reflection,  Mrs.  Clif 
ton,  accepted  the  invitation,  and  promised  to  go  over  the  next 
day.  The  next  morning,  therefore,  Mrs.  Cabell  sent  her 
carriage  to  convey  Mrs.  Clifton  and  Catherine.  They  were 
received  by  Mrs.  Cabell  with  great  politeness  and  emprcsse- 
ment,  and  conducted  by  that  lady  herself  into  two  large  and 
luxuriously  furnished  chambers,  connected  with  each  other, 
where  they  found  a  neat,  pretty  mulatto  girl,  ready  to  wait 
upon  them — for  Mrs.  Cabell,  with  all  her  hard  wordliness, 
was  truly  kind  and  hospitable. 

The  evening  of  the  succeeding  day  was  the  appointed  time 
for  the  Governor's  first  reception.  Mrs.  Cabell  and  her 
family  were  going,  of  course.  And  Mrs.  Clifton  resolved  tc 
go — not  for  her  own  sake,  but  for  that  of  Catherine,  whom 
she  had  determined  should  see  all  that  was  to  be  seen  during 
her  stay  in  the  metropolis.  A  somewhat  haughty  surprise 
elevated  the  handsome  black  eyebrows  of  Mrs.  Cabell,  when 

.  she  found  that  Mrs.  Clifton  intended  to  take  her  demoiselle 
du  compagnie,  but  she  was  far  too  well  bred  to  express  it  in 
any  other  manner.  And  as  for  Mrs.  Clifton,  she  alwa^.did 
whatever  she  thought  proper  to  do,  in  the  coolest,  calmest, 
most  matter-of-course  manner,  without  the  slightest  regard 
to  other  people's  weaknesses  and  follies.  You  know,  besides, 

^  that  she  was  a  thorough  republican.  And  Mrs.  Cabell  re 
membered  that  the  public  reception  at  the  gubernatorial 
mansion  was  a  sort  of  omnium  gatherum,  where  all  ;vho  be 
haved  themselves  might  come — from  the  oldest  Major-Gerie- 
ral  of  the  army  to  the  shoemaker  who  made  his  boots.  And 
again,  no  one  in  Richmond  knew  who  the  girl  really  was. 
All  these  things  haa  Mrs.  Cabell  to  recall  to  mind  before  sho 
could  reconcile  herself  to  the  idea  of  Kate's  being  of  the 
party, 


IN      THE      CITY.  247 

When  the  night  and  the  hour  arrived,  several  gentlemen, 
beaux  of  the  Misses  Cabell,  came  to  escort  the  ladies.  Major 
Cabell  attended  his  cousin  Carolyn  and  one  of  his  sisters. 
Judge  Cabell  took  charge  of  his  wife  and  eldest  daughter. 
Mrs.  Clifton  had  hoped  that  her  son  would  have  reached  the 
city  in  time  to  have  escorted  herself  and  Catherine.  When 
they  were  all  assembled  in  the  parlor,  Major  Cabell  brought 
a  gentleman  up  to  Mrs.  Clifton,  whom  he  presented  as  Colo 
nel  Conyers,  of  the  army,  leaving  to  Mrs.  Clifton  the  respon 
sibility  of  presenting  the  aristocrat  to  the  plebeian  Kate.  Mrs. 
Clifton  did  it  at  once,  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world. 
And  the  gallant  Colonel,  after  a  few  compliments,  hoped  to 
have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon  Mrs.  Clifton  and  her  "  lovely 
charge "  to  the  Mansion  House.  Mrs.  Clifton  gratefully 
accepted  his  services — and  soon  after,  they  entered  the  car 
riage,  and  were  driven  off.  This  party  reached  their  desti 
nation  a  full  half  hour  before  Mrs.  Cabell  and  family,  and 
other  ultra  fashionables,  who  fancied  that  it  was  vulgar  to  go 
early,  and  imagined  that  their  ton  depended  upon  late  hours 
and  other  observances.  Mrs.  Clifton  was  very  plainly  dressed, 
in  a  black  satin  with  a  lace  scarf — Catherine  very  simply,  in 
a  white  crape,  with  a  scarlet  geranium  twined  in  her  black 
hair.  A  moment  in  the  cloak-room  sufficed  to  re-arranga 
their  simple  toilet.  They  were  then  conducted  into  the 
saloon.  This  apartment  was  fitted  up  in-  a  somewhat  differ 
ent  style  to  those  of  the  present  day.  It  was  illuminated  by 
three  large  hanging  chandeliers,  holding  innumerable  wax 
candles  ;  and  warmed  by  two  enormous  coal  fires,  one  at 
each  extremity.  It  was  already  well  filled  with  a  miscella 
neous  company.  After  their  presentation  to  the  Governor, 
Colonel  Conyers  inquired  whether  they  chose  to  join  the 
promenade  or  to  take  seats.  Mrs.  Clifton  preferred  the  lat 
ter,  and  their  polite  escort  conducted  them  to  a  side  sofa^\  X 
from  which  they  could  note  the  entrance  of  fresh  guests,  and 
watch  the  great  circle  of  promenaders  going  round  and  round 
in  one  long  elliptic,  three  or  four  persons  deep,  in  the  most, 
stupid,  treadmill  monotony  conceivable.  Very  much  inter 
ested  and  amused  was  our  simple  country  girl,  in  taking  ol>  \ 
serrations  of  the  various  characters  passing  in  review  before  \ 
them.  JHero  would  be  a  dowager  of  sixty,  in  rouge,  ring-  \ 
lets,  bare  arms  and  a  gossamer  dress  ;  here  a  girl  of  seven-  « 
teen,  in  a  black,  stiff  brocade  and  heavy"head-dress.  IJJerc 
a  stately,  broad-chested,  senatorial-looking  man — he 


248  IN      THE      CITY. 

looks  the  incumbent  of  some  high,  official  place — he  is  the* 
master  t.-vilor,  of  -  -street.  Here  comes  a  red-  headed, 
red-faced,  sharp-featured  little  man,  very  quick  and  impa 
tient  in  his  motions,  and  very  high  in  his  voice — he  looks 
like  an  auctioneer  or  a  constable — he  is  the  great  Genera] 

•,  of  the  United  States  Army.     Here  is  a  small,  dowdy 

woman,  all  fuss  and  flowers,  like  a  barn-house  actress — she 
is  the  wife  of  the  late  Governor  -  — .  This  is  a  queenly 
woman  !  tall,  stately,  dignified,  with  a  fine,  royal  counte 
nance.  Pooh  !  Don't  ask  who  she  is — she  is  the  "  leading 
lady  "  at  the  city  theatre — plays  in  all  the  heavy  tragedies, 
but  is  not  even  a  star.  There,  apart,  watching  and  reflect 
ing  upon  the  scene,  stands  a  grave-looking  individual,  in  a 
closely-fitting  black  suit,  and  closely-cropped  black  hair,  and 
set,  sallow,  saturnine  face,  looking  like  an  undertaker  at  a 
funeral — doubtless  some  famous  preacher — though  so  miser 
able  a  messenger  of  the  glad  tidings  cannot  be  imagined 

Preacher,  indeed !     Why,  he  is  H ,  the  low  comedian, 

and  he  wears  his  hair  cropped  that  way  by  reason  of  the 
many  different  sorts  of  wigs  he  has  to  wear  in  his  different 
impersonations.  To-night,  he  happens  to  be  off  the  boards, 
and  enjoys  the  recreation  of  sadness  and  gravity.  Ah  !  here 
is  a  debonnair  gentleman  !  all  life  !  a  laugh  and  jest,  or  a 
smile  and  a  bow  for  every  one.  Is  he  a  French  dancing- 
master  ?  No — he  is  the  Rev.  Mr.  ,  the  most  popular 

preacher  of  the  day.  Yet  these  were  not  all.  There  ivas  a 
small  proportion  of  really  well-dressed  and  dignified  women, 
and  stately,  honorable  men. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  scene,  Catherine  ?"  asked  Mrs 
Clifton. 

Kate  laughed — then  replied — 

"  I  am  somewhat  disappointed,  but  very  much  more  di 
verted  !  It  seems  to  me  so  strange  that  people  should  look, 
dress  and  behave  so  very  inappropriately !  and  that  they 
could  possibly  be  so  very  ill-dressed  and  dowdy  at  such  a 
great  expense.  I  expected  something  very  recherche  and 
elegant  in  the  saloon  of  the  Governor's  mansion.  But  ;  mot 
ley  is  the  only  wear  !',' 

The  officer  laughed,  gayly,  and  then  observed — 

"  Why  "?     Why  did  you  look  for  something,  or  rather,  for 

\  everything  recherche  and  elegant  in  this  crowd?     Because 

you  see  in  the  newspaper  reports  of  such  gatherings,  such 

j  phrases  as  <  the  beautiful  Mis  A V — by-the-way,  thero 


IN     THE     CITY.  249 

site  is — the  young  lady  with  the  red  hair,  milk-white  com 
plexion  and  little  eyes  ;  or  '  the  elegant  Mrs.  B —  —  !'  -the 
graceful  Mrs.  C-  —  V  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  with  revised  and 
improved  accounts  of  their  costume,  appearance,  manners, 
etc.  ?  Miss  Kavanagh,  when  you  have  stayed  in  the  city 
longer,  you  will  know  that  when  a  newspaper  reporter  and 
letter  writer  speaks  of  that  dowdy,  but  wealthy  little  woman, 
in  the  flimsy,  scarlet  dress,  as  « the  beautiful,  elegant,  and 
accomplished  Mrs.  G —  — ,'  and  tells  of  'the  immense 
(imaginary)  sensation '  she  made — he,  th^  reporter,  is  morally 
certain  of  an  invitation  to  her  private  parties." 

Kate  did  not  like  his  sarcastic  tone,  but  before  she  could 
make  any  sort  of  reply,  her  attention  was  called  to  a  rising 
excitement  in  the  room.  Every  gentleman,  from  the  fid- 
getty  little  Major  General,  down  to  the  grave  and  dignified 
low  comedian  ;  and  every  lady,  from  the  ex-Governor's  fussy 
widow,  to  the  stately  and  self-possessed  stock  actress,  were 
on  the  qui  vive.  Kate,  while  listening  and  watching  for  the 
cause  of  the  excitement,  caught  a  few  phrases  that  helped  to 
enlighten  her — they  were  of  this  sort : — "  A  wonder !  a  perfect 
wonder  !  A  miracle  of  dark  beauty."  "  The  wealthiest  woman 
in  the  state,  but  that  is  nothing  to  her  marvelous  beauty." 
"  Did  you  see  her  as  *  Egypt  J  at  the  fancy  ball  ?"  "  Her 

portrait,  in  oil,  by ,  stands  in  Stationers'  Hall.  It  has 

attracted  crowds."  "  No — I  have  seen  the  engraving  from 
it  in  <  Beauty's  Annual '  for  this  year.  But  I  have  also  seen 
it  on  the  tops  of  cigar  boxes — too  bad  !"  "  Hush  !  here  she 
comes  !" 

Catherine  turned  her  eyes  in  the  direction  towards  which 
all  others  were  gazing.  It  was  Georgia — dark,  bright,  and 
more  beautiful  and  bewitching  than  ever.  Her  dress  was  of 
lustrous  black  crape-de-lise,  sprinkled  over  with  gold  spangles, 
that  gleamed  in  and  out  through  the  dark,  transparent  dra 
pery,  suggesting  clear,  starlight  night.  A  crowd  entered 
with  tho  star-bright  Circe — a  crowd  attended  her  during  all 
her  progress  through  the  room. 

We  must  leave  Georgia  to  her  alluring  wiles,  and  Cathe 
rine  to  her  observations,  and  seek  Mrs.  Cabell  and  her  party. 
They  are  in  the  dressing-room,  and  about  to  leave  it.  Only 
Mrs.  Cabell  turns  again  and  again  to  survey  her  form  in  the 
mirror,  and  re-adjust  the  flow  of  her  purple  satin  dress,  01  the 
wave  of  her  white  ostrich  plumes.  When  all  is  done,  she 
tarns  for  the  last  time  to  Carolyn,  to  rebuke  her  for  not  add- 


250  IN      THE      CITY. 

ing  a  singie  ornament  to  her  mourning  dress  of  black  velvet, 
which  is  relieved  only  by  the  falls  of  fine  Brussels  lace  on 
the  neck  and  arms,  and  the  sunny  ringlets  falling  all  around 
her  head  as  low  as  the  throat.  Carolyn  looks  very  fragile, 
but  interesting  and  lovely,  though  she  does  not  know  it- 
Major  Cabell  gave  his  right  arm  to  his  mother,  and  his  left 
to  his  cousin,  and  so,  as  it  was  now  the  acme  of  the  fashion 
able  hour,  they  entered  the  saloon,  and  made  their  slow  pro 
gress  up  to  the  upper  end,  where  the  Governor  and  staff 
stood;  to  receive  all  comers — Mrs.  Cabell  bowing  and  smiling 
to  such  acquaintances  as  she  chose  to  recognize  in  passing, 
until  at  length  they  stopped.  A  feeling  of  false  shame,  a 
morbid  notion  that  all  eyes  were  upon  her,  and  scrutinized 
the  few  pits  hidden  under  the  golden  curls  on  her  temples, 
had  caused  Carolyn  to  cast  her  eyes  down,  and  keep  them 
down,  during  the  whole  progress  through  the  room — and 
though  her  acute  ears  heard  such  murmurs  as  these — "  How 
fair  she  is,"  "  But  how  fragile,  as  if  a  zephyr  would  blow  her 
away" — she  never  fancied  they  were  breathed  of  her,  and 
never  surmised  the  admiration  she  elicited.  "  Governor 
T-  — ,  Miss  Clifton,  of  Clifton,"  were  the  words  that  ad 
monished  Carolyn  she  was  standing  before  the  great  man, 
and  must  look  up  and  curtsy.  She  curtsied  before  she 
looked  up,  and  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  she  saw  only  Archer 
Clifton  before  her,  who  bowed  when  he  met  her  glance  !  The 
Governor  and  many  others  were  there,  but  how  could  she  see 
any  one  but  Archer  Clifton !  But,  oh !  the  perversity  of 
human  nature !  As  soon  as  she  met  his  eyes,  all  the  pride 
and  scorn  of  her  proudest,  most  scornful  days,  returned  upon 
her  with  a  vengeance — all  the  more  fiercely,  ferociously,  that 
she  believed  herself  a  fright,  and  found  Archer  Clifton  hand 
somer,  more  dignified,  higher  in  favor  with  God  and  man  than 
ever  !  Major  Cabell  was  about  to  pass  on  instantly  with  his 
ladies,  to  give  place  to  the  next  arrivals.'"'  Returning  Archer 
Clifton's  bow  with  a  haughty  bend,  she  threw  up  her  head 
and  swept  on  with  the  most  superb  air  of  arrogance  imagina 
ble.  They  joined  the  promeuaders — Carolyn  all  the  mora 
unhappy  for  her  show  of  hauteur — the  heart  beneath  that 
erected  head  and  expanded  chest  almost  breaking  with  cha 
grin.  Captain,  now  Major  Clifton,  stood  at  the  right  hand 
of  the  Governor,  with  his  eyes  roving  calmly  over  the  mis 
cellaneous  assembly,  until  they  chanced  to  rest  upon  tho 
itately  form  of  hi.°  x^othe'  when  they  lighted  up  with  sur- 


IN     THE     CITY.  251 

prtae  and  pleasure,  and  excusing  himself  from  hi3  official 
attendance,  he  bowed  and  withdrew,  to  hasten  to  the  distant 
?ofa,  where  she  sat  alone.  Catherine,  on  the  arm  of  Colonel 
Oonyers,  was  lost  in  the  slowly  revolving  crowd  of  promena- 
3ers.  He  reached  Mrs.  Clifton's  side,  and — 

"  My  dearest  mother!" 

"My  dear  Archer!"  were  the  greetings  exchanged  be 
tween  them  with  the  clasped  hands. 

"  How  delighted  I  am  to  see  you,  yet  how  tantalizing  to 
tfieet  you  in  this  public  assembly,  after  so  long  an  absence  !>; 

"When  did  you  reach  the  city,  Archer?" 

"  Within  the  last  half-hour  !  Having  important  dispatches 
['or  the  Governor,  I  came  at  once  hither." 

"  I  did  not  see  you  enter." 

"  I  came  in  by  the  private  entrance,  and  joined  his  excel- 
'ency's  circle  directly.  But,  my  dearest  mother  !  I  scarcely 
noped  you  would  be  in  town — how  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"  About  four  days,  Archer." 

Suddenly  both  became  grave  and  thoughtful — they  were 
occupied  with  the  same  thoughts — of  the  calamities  that  had 
ftefallen  mutual  friends  since  their  last  parting.  They  were 
silent — they  did  not  like  to  sadden  this  first  meeting  by  re 
ferring  to  the  mournful  subject.  And  before  either  knew  of 
ner  approach,  Mrs.  Georgia  had  glided  swiftly  and  silently 
up  to  them.  Now,  Mrs.  Georgia  had  passed  and  repassed 
Mrs.  Clifton  a  score  of  times  that  evening,  without  once  no 
ticing  her.  But  now  that  Archer  Clifton  sat  by  his  mother's 
side,  the  Circe  appeared  before  them,  dark,  resplendent, 
alluring  as  ever.  She  was  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  tho 
Lieutenant-Governor.  Archer  Clifton  sprang  up  imme 
diately,  and  greeted  her  with  surprise  and  pleasure.  Dismiss 
ing  her  escort  with  a  charming  smile  and  wave  of  the  hand 
si  e  sank  gracefully,  languishing!  y  into  the  seat  by  the  side 
9f  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  glided  into  her  own  fascinating  style  of 
conversation.  After  a  few  minutes,  Archer  Clifton  seemed 
quite  lost  to  everything  else,  in  the  charm  of  the  syreri'j 
society,  until  a  certain,  sweet,  enticing  restlessness  on  th<j 
part  of  the  beauty,  suggested  to  him  the  propriety  of  inviting 
her  to  promenade.  She  arose  with  a  bewildering  smile,  that 
quite  drove  his  mother  out  of  his  head,  and  slipped  her  arm 
through  his.  They  joined  the  promenaders.  In  the  mean 
time,  Kate  Kavanagh,  on  the  arm  of  Colonel  Conyers,  was 
aiound  in  the  same  circle,  highly  amused  in  making 


$52  TN      THE      CITY. 

observations,  and  scarcely  appreciating  the  sincere  admiration 
of  her  escort,  that  was  apparent  to  every  one  else,  especially 
to  the  correspondent  of  the  Fiddle-de-dee,  -who,  in  his  next 
letter,  i:i  giving  an  account  of  the  reception,  made  an  item  of 
the  manifest  admiration  of  the  gallant  and  distinguished 

Colonel  C ,  for  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Miss 

K — .  Catherine  at  length  thought  that  her  kind  pa 
troness  might  be  lonely,  and  expressed  a  wish  to  rejoin  hor. 
In  turning'to  retrace  their  steps,  they  met  face  to  face  with 
Archer  Clifton  and  his  companion.  Major  Clifton  recognized 
the  poor  mountain  girl  in  that  saloon,  with  a  look  of  super 
cilious  surprise,  and  Mrs.  Georgia  looked  calmly  through  her 
body  without  seeing  her  at  all.  With  a  slight  bow,  Major 
Clifton  passed  on  with  his  companion.  And  as  for  Kate,  her 
heart  had  a  habit  of  standing  perfectly  still  in  an  emergency, 
arid  now  it  had  stopped  so  suddenly,  and  stood  still  so  long, 
that  she  was  on  the  verge  of  fainting. 

"  You  are  not  well.  You  are  wearied.  You  have  re 
mained  on  your  feet  too  long.  Let  me  take  you  to  a  seat, 
Miss  Kavanagh,"  said  the  Colonel.  With  a  gasp  and  a 
shiver,  Kate  recovered  and  rejoined  Mrs.  Clifton.  And  she  per 
mitted  herself  to  fall  into  no  more  weakness  that  night.  But 
Kate  had  unconsciously  betrayed  her  secret  to  the  officer. 
And  by  the  interference  of  her  good  angel,  this  knowledge 
thus  obtained,  enabled  Colonel  Conyers  to  do  Kate  a  service 
of  vital  importance  in  after  years. 

'-'  Archer  is  come,"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  as  Catherine  took 
her  seat. 

"  I  know  it.  I  met  him,"  replied  Catherine,  and  both 
fell  into  silence,  for  at  that  instant  Major  Clifton  and  the 
beautiful  Georgia  passed  them.  And  from  that  time,  and  so 
long  as  they  sat  there,  again  and  again  in  the  slow  revolving 
of  the  great  circle  of  promenaders,  the  pair  passed  and  re- 
passed  them — Georgia  smiling,  cooing,  murmuring,  in  her 
low,  alluring  music — and  Archer  Clifton,  bending  over  her 
with  his  brilliant  gray  eyes,  feeding  on  her  lovely  face, 
seeming  to  sink  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  bathos  of  her 
charms,  while  Carolyn  turned  sick  with  jealousy,  and  Cathe 
rine  faint  with  dread,  and  the  correspondent  of  the  Fiddle- 
de-dee  made  a  note  of  the  distinguished  favor  with  which  the 
most  beautiful  Mrs.  C —  — ,  the  reigning  belle  of  Richmond, 
received  the  devoirs  of  her  distant  relative,  the  celebrated 
Major  t! — • .  Bear  nothing^-^Carjol^n,  or  Catherine, 


IH     THE     CITY.  2f»3 

Archer  Clifton  is  not  in  love  with  his  uncle's  widow  —  tnat 
very  relationship»would  repel  the  idea,  if  nothing  else.  But 
he  is  not  indifferent  to  the  honor  of  monopolizing  the  reign 
ing  queen  of  the  ton. 

"  Aunt  Cabell,"  said  Carolyn,  "  I  cannot  sit  up  longer.  ] 
must  go  home." 

And  Mrs.  Cabell  consented  to  gratify  her  wish.  In  fact 
it  was  growing  late,  and  the  ultra-fashionables,  the  last  to 
come,  and  the  first  to  leave,  were  beginning  to  disappear. 
Mrs.  Georgia  unwillingly  discovered  this  fact,  but  she  thought 
that  at  least  she  could  adroitly  secure  the  services  of  her 
companion  as  an  escort  home,  and  detain  him  to  any  hour  in 
the  little  paradise  of  her  own  boudoir.  She  therefore  ex 
pressed  herself  ennuied,  and  entreated  Major  Clifton  to  con 
duct  her  to  the  cloak-room.  He  attended  her  thither.  And 
there  he  met  again  his  Cousin  Carolyn.  She  looked  so  fair, 
so  wan,  so  fragile,  that  he  could  not  for  a  moment  take  his 
eyes  from  her.  He  hastily  adjusted  the  mantle  over  the 
shoulders  of  Georgia,  handed  her  her  muff  and  hood,  and 
excusing  himself  for  a  moment,  hurried  back  to  his  mother's 


"  You  have  company  home,  madam,  have  you  not  ?" 

"  Certainly,  Archer.  I  should  not  be  here  without 
such  a  provision  —  here  comes  Colonel  Conyers  now  to  at 
tend  us." 

"  Good-night,  then  !  I  will  see  you  early  to-morrow  ! 
Good-night,  Kate  !"  He  was  off. 

Mrs.  Cabell  and  Carolyn,  leaning  on  Major  Cabell's  arms, 
reached  their  carriage  door.  The  Major  dropped  his  cousin's 
arm  a  moment  to  assist  his  mother  in,  and  to  settle  her  in 
her  seat.  And  during  that  moment  Carolyn  felt  an  arm 
passed  around  her  waist,  and  a  voice  whisper  — 

"  Carolyn  —  my  beloved  cousin  !  my  bride  !  am  I  for 
given?" 

She  burst  into  tears  and  dropped  her  proud  head  en  his 
bosom,  exclaiming  — 

"  Oh,  Apjher  !  am  1  forgiven  ?" 

He  placed  her  in  the  carriage,  and  springing  in  past  Major 
Cabell,  took  the  seat  by  her  side,  leaving  the  Major  to 
follow  as  he  could,  and  forgetting  the  very  existence  of  Mrs, 
Georgia. 

Kate  was  close  to  them  —  she  saw  and  heard  it  all.     Nod 
ding  her  head  i  lowly  several  *imes,  she  murmured  — 
16 


254  IN      THE      CIVY. 

«  Thank  God.     Thank  God.!     Oh,  Merciful  Father,  help 
me  to  say  that  sincerely.     Thank  God !" 
gr  Three  weeks  after  this  they  were  married.     The  ceremony 
jTwas  performed  in  the  ancient  church  of  St.  John's  on  Rich- 

I  mond  Hill — one  of  the  oldest  places  of  worship  on  the  whole 

'  continent.    Mrs.  Cabell  would  willingly  have  made  this  event 

the  occasion  of  a  great  deal  of  ostentatious  display ;  but  the 

recent  afflictions  in  the  family,  and  the  fragility  of  the  bride, 

^    rendered  other  arrangements  necessary.     Therefore,  imme 
diately  after  the  ceremony,  which  came  off  at  an  early  hour 

•^of  the  morning,  the  newly-married  couple,  taking  advantage 

£  of  the  very  fine  weather,  departed  for  Norfolk,  with  the  in 
tention  of  sailing  thence  to  Havana,  where,  by  the  advice 

1    of  an  eminent  physician,  for  the  re-establishment  of  the  bride's 
health,  they  purposed  to  spend  the  winter. 

Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton,  with  all  the  other  members  of  the 
family  connection,  had,  of  course,  been  present  at  the  mar 
riage.  And  no  one  was  so  lavish  of  smiles,  tears,  caresses, 
and  congratulations,  as  the  dark-eyed  syren.  But  when  all 
was  over,  and  the  bridal  pair  had  departed,  refusing  the  in 
vitation  of  Mrs.  Cabell  to  go  home  and  dine  with  a  party  of 
friends,  she  hurried  to  her  lodgings,  pushed  open  the  door 
of  her  luxurious  boudoir,  fastened  it  on  the  inside,  and  threw 
herself  down,  rolling  over,  tearing  at  the  carpet,  and  gnash 
ing  her  teeth  in  an  agony  of  disappointment,  jealousy  and 
impotent  rage. 

But  not  long  did  the  Circe  of  Richmond  yield  herself  up 
to  anguish  and  despair.  Christmas  was  approaching,  when 
she  was  expected  to  entertain  a  select  number  of  her  wor 
shipers  at  White  Cliffs.  It  was  expedient  that  she  should 
go  down  a  few  days  in  advance  of  the  party,  to  make  ready 
for  their  reception.  Therefore,  about  five  days  after  the 
marriage,  she  left  the -city. 

Mrs.  Clifton  remained  a  week  longer  in  town,  to  give 
Catherine  an  opportunity  of  attending  a  course  of  lectnrea 
on  Moral  Philosophy.  And  their  escort  every  evening  was 
Colonel  Conyers. 


8     VARIOUS     PHASES.  255 


CHAPTER   XXII, 
LIFE'S  VARIOUS  PHASES. 

Why,  let  the  stricken  deer  go  weep, 

The  hart  ungalled  p':»v, 
For  some  must  watch  while  some  mny  sleep. 

So  runs  the  world  away. — SHAKSPEARE. 

Ir  was  always  Mrs.  Clifton's  rule  to  spend  Christmas  at 
home — so  she  arranged  to  leave  Richmond  on  the  twenty- 
•hird.  It  was  three  o'clock  on  the  dark,  cold,  winter  moru- 
•.ng,  that  the  stage  called  for  them.  Our  travelers  wer* 
muffled  up  to  the  ears  in  hoods,  cloaks,  shawls  and  furs,  and 
when  they  entered  the  coach,  they  seemed  to  fill  up  all  tho 
back.  It  was  so  dark  that  they  could  see  nothing,  and  the 
stage  seemed  to  be  vacant  of  other  passengers  than  them- 
selves  5  until  Mrs.  Clifton,  settling  her  own  outer  garments, 
spoke,  cautioning  Catherine  to  fold  her  cloak  carefully  about 
her.  Then  another  voice  spoke,  from  the  opposite  seat,  ex 
claiming,  in  a  tone  of  surprise  and  pleasure — 

"  Why,  is  it  possible  !     Mrs,  Clifton  and  Miss  Kavanagh "?" 

"  Yes,  Colonel  Conyers,  and  I  am  as  much  pleased  as  sur 
prised  to  find  you  here !  How  comes  it  that  we  are  fellow 
travelers  ?"  said  the  lady,  placing  her  own  in  his  offered 
hand. 

"  And  how  do  you  do,  Miss  Kavanagh  ? — really,  I  am  so 
overjoyed  to  find  you  here  !  Why,  you  must  know,  my  dear 
.Mrs.  Clifton,  that  I  have  been  due  at  White  Cliffs  for  several 
days.  I  am,  in  fact,  the  laggard  of  a  party — but  in  truth 
I  could  not  tear  myself  from  Richmond,  while  you  and  Mis3 
Kavanagh  remained.  But  last  night,  after  taking  leave  of 
you,  as  I  supposed,  for  some  length  of  time, — under  ofreat 
depression  of  spirits,  Miss  Kavanagh, — I  sent  and  had  a  place 

taken  in  this  stage,  for  L ,  which  I  understand  to  be 

the  nearest  stage  station  to  White  Cliffs.  Wliy,  how  little 
did  I  suspect  that  we  were  to  travel  by  tbc  saire  anach  ' 


25G  LIFE'S     VARIOUS    PHASES. 

Truly,  *  life  is  full  of  paper  walls.'  A  word  dropped  by  either 
of  us,  last  nignt,  would  have  revealed  the  fact  to  the  other  ! 
13ut  how  delighted  I  am,  Miss  Kavanagh  !  And  may  I  hope, 
Mrs.  Clifton,  that  our  journey  lies  for  some  distance  together?" 

"  For  the  whole  distance,  I  am  happy  to  say.  The  plan 
tation  of  White  Cliffs  and  the  farm  of  Hardbargain  join. 
Our  journey  terminates  at  L ." 

"  Really  !  Why  this  is  excellent!  So,  instead  of  being 
separated,  we  shall  travel  all  the  way  together,  and  then  con 
tinue  to  be  neighbors  for  some  weeks  !  Miss  Kavanagh,  I 
am  overjoyed." 

There  was  not  much  traveling  at  that  season  of  the  year, 
so  our  party  of  three  had  the  coach  to  themselves,  and  Colonel 
Conyers  devoted  himself  with  great  assiduity  to  the  comfort 
of  the  ladies. 

At  the  end  of  the  «econd  day,  just  as  the  level  beams  of 
tne  setting  sun  weie  gilding  all  the  village  windows,  the  stage 
rolled  into  L . 

There,  before  the  little  tavern  door,  waited  Mrs.  Clifton's 
old-fashioned  carriage. 

"  Did  you  notify  the  family  of  White  Cliffs  of  your  in 
tended  arrival  here  to-day  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Colonel 
Conyers. 

"  No,  madam  !  My  journey  was  resolved  upon  so  sud 
denly — out  of  '  my  grief  and  my  impatience'  at  the  supposed 
loss  of  your  own  and  Miss  Kavanagh's  society — that  I  had 
no  time  to  write." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  the  reason  why  their  carriage  is  not  waiting 
for  you.  Colonel  Conyers,  if  you  will  take  a  seat  with  us  to 
Hardbargain,  and  res"t  for  a  few  hours  or  a  few  days  as  you 
please,  we  shall  be  very  glad,  and  we  shall  furnish  you  with 
a  conveyance  to  White  Cliffs  whenever  you  wish  to  go." 

Colonel  Conyers  expressed  himself  but  too  happy  to  accept 
Mrs.  Clifton's  invitation,  and  they  all  entered  the  old-fash 
ioned  carriage,  and  set  out  for  Hardbargain.  The  farm  was 
nine  miles  distant,  and  the  road  the  very  roughest,  even  of 
mountain  turnpikes.  Colonel  Conyers  ventured  to  wonder 

how  any  carriage  could  stand  it,  and  surmised  that  R 

County  must  be  blessed  with  the  best  wheelwrights  in  tho 
world — to  which  Mrs.  Clifton  replied  that  they  had  the  very 
best  to  be  met  with  anywhere. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  at  night  when  they  reached  Hardbar 
.  but  they  found  the  hall  lighted  un.  fires  blazing  in  the 


LIFE'S    VARIOUS    PHASES.  257 

parlor,  and  the  dining-room,  and  a  substantial  supper  waiting 
for  the  order  of  the  mistress.  The  farm-house  looked  cheer 
ful,  hospitable,  and  inviting ;  and  Colonel  Conyers  rubbed 
his  hands  in  delight.  He  remained  over  night.  The  next 
day  was  Christmas,  and  nothing  but  the  binding  engagement 
to  render  an  account  of  himself  to  the  beautiful  Georgia  at 
least  by  Christmas,  could  have  forced  him  to  White  Cliffs  that 
day.  He  accepted  Mrs.  Clifton's  cordial  invitation  to  come 
over  ofren  while  he  remained  in  the  neighborhood.  In  fact, 
Mrs.  Clifton  had  seen  that  Colonel  Conyers  was  very  much 
pleased  with  Catherine,  and  she  felt  desirous  that  he  should 
have  an  opportunity  of  winning  the  affections  of  her  favorite. 
Colonel  Conyers  took  the  largest  advantage  of  Mrs.  Clifton's 
hospitality,  and  not  even  the  charms  of  the  syren  of  White 
Cliffs,  could  wile  him  away  from  his  daily  evening  ride  over 
to  Hardbargain.  And  so,  after  a  few  weeks — as  there  is  no*" 
accounting  for  tastes,  and  as  the  most  extraordinary  things' 
sometimes  really  do  happen — it  turned  out  that  Colonel  Con-' 
yers  actually  did  lay  his  heart,  hand  and  fortune  at  the  feet 
of  the  humble  girl  whom  his  own  subordinate  officer,  Captain 
Clifton,  had  despised,  and,  farthermore,  that  he  was  rejected 
by  her  !  Yes !  gratefully,  kindly,  but  firmly  and  finally  re 
jected  !  And  full  of  disappointment,  humiliation  and  sor 
row,  the  gallant  Colonel  abruptly  concluded  his  visit,  and 
returned  to  town. 

"  Oh,  Catherine,  my  dear,  if  you  could  but  have  liked 
him  well  enough  to  have  married  him.  He  is  an  honest, 
kind-hearted  man,"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  with  a  sigh  of  regret. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  good  man.  Heaven  bless  him  with  a  good 
wife,"  answered  Kate. 

Neither  of  these  unworldly  women  once  reverted  to  the 
advantages  of  rank  resigned  with  the  rejected  lover. 

And  soon  Catherine  had  other  thoughts  and  occupations 
than  those  connected  with  courtship  and  marriage.  The 
situation  of  her  grandfather  demanded  all  her  care.  For 
many  months  before  this,  the  long  and  persevering  efforts  of 
the  patient  girl  had  been  blessed  with  success,  and  the  old 
man  had  abandoned  the  use  of  intoxicating  spirits.  But 
within  the  last  few  weeks  the  total  disuse  of  the  stimulant  to 
which  he  was  morbidly  accustomed,  had  began  to  produce 
the  most  dangerous  effects  upon  his  aged  and  infirm  frame. 
He  grew  weaker  and  still  weaker,  until  at  length  he  was 
confined  to  his  bed  And  so  he  slowly  sank  and  failed  as 


258  LIFE'S     VARIOUS     PHAS^A. 

weeks^weary  weeks — dragged  on  to  months.  And  through 
all  this  dreary  time,  day  and  night,  Catherine  faithfully 
nursed  him.  Many  a  night  she  sat  the  only  watcher  by  his 
bedside,  hourly  .expecting  his  death;  and  many  a  morning 
he  revived  again,  so  deep  a  hold  had  life  upon  that  old,  worn 
body,  Scarcely  for  necessary  food  or  rest  would  Catherine 
leave  him,  always  watching,  waiting  on  and  cheering  him  . 
sometimes — whenever  he  desired  it — reading  the  Bible  te 
him,  singing  or  praying  with  him.  In  vain  Mrs.  Clifton 
noticing  the  care-worn,  toil-worn,  emaciatod  countenance 
of  the  girl,  besought  her  to  take  care  of  her  own  health. 
Catherine  cared  for  nothing  on  earth  so  much  as  the  aged 
man  daily  fading  away  from  her  sight.  And  so  passed  the 
winter.  And  so  opened  the  spring.  And  then  his  old 
disease,  if  it  could  be  called  a  disease,  took  a  most  alarming 
turn.  After  a  paroxysm  more  violent  than  ever  had  come 
on  him  before,  he  fell  into  a  state  of  greater  prostration. 
And  the  physician  hastilv  summoned,  declared  that  another 
such  attack  would  be  fatal,  and  that  only  the  use  of  brandy 
could  ward  the  fit  off,  and  save  his  life.  Carl  Wetzel  replied 
that  he  felt  if  he  should  taste  the  intoxicating  liquid  again, 
the  fatal  appetite  for  alcohol  would  return  upon  him  with 
tenfold  violence  for  the  temporary  abstinence,  and  that  it 
would  totally  subject  him  to  its  dominion.  The  doctor 
called  him  a  fool  and  a  fanatic,  without  self-control  or  self- 
reliance,  and  left  him  to  his  fate.  When  the  physician  had 
left  the  hut,  the  old  man  called  his  grand-daughter  to  his 
bedside. 

u  Kate,  you  heard  what  the  doctor  said  ?" 

Kate  nodded — her  heart  was  too  full  for  speech. 

"  My  dear  child — my  dear,  good  Kate  ! — he  says  that 
unless  I  drink  brandy  I  shall  die.  But,  Kate,  if  I  taste 

brandy  again,  I  feel  I  shall  live a  drunkard  !     Kate,  I 

Know  you  are  wise  and  good  beyond  your  years.  Kate,  I 
have  full  faith  in  you !  My  child,  I  will  do  as  you  decide 
for  me.  Darling,  shall  I  drink  or  die?" 

Kate  sank  upon  her  knees  by  his  bedside,  took  both  his 
venerable  hands  and  kissed  and  pressed  them  to  her  bosom, 
bowed  her  face  over  them,  and  wept  in  silence.  At  last, 
raising  her  head,  she  gazed  earnestly,  reverently,  lovingly  in 
flie  old  man's  face,  and  answered — 

"  Dearest  grandfather,  do  not  ask  me.  a  poor,  weak,  erring 
girl !  Dearest  grandfather,  ask  God '"  , 


VARIOUS    PHASES.  259 

The  old  man  feebly  raised  his  hand,  and  placed  it  on  her 
bead  and  blessed  her,  adding — 

"  I  thank  Thee,  oh,  Father !  that  out  of  the  mouths  of 
babes  and  sucklings  Thou  hast  perfected  praise  !" 

Trie  next  morning,  when  the  doctor  came,  he  found  tho 
old  man  sinking  fast,  yet  clinging  as  human  nature  will  cling, 
to  the  wish  for — the  hope  of — life. 

"  Doctor,  is  there  no  other  way  of  saving  me  than  that 
you  spoke  of?" 

"  None,  whatever,  my  good  friend  ;  unless  you  consent  to 
eave  yourself  by  taking  alcohol,  you  must  die."  x 

« then  I  will  die*  !"  replied  Carl  Wetzel. 

And  within  a  week  from  this  time  the  old  man  died  and/ 
was  buried. 

After  the  funeral  was  over,  Mrs.  Clifton  invited  and  urged 
Catherine  to  come  and  take  up  her  permanent  residence  at 
Ilardbargain.  There  were  now  no  reasons  why  Catherine 
should  not,  and  many  why  she  should,  accept  this  very  advan 
tageous  offer. 

Her  brother  Carl  was  about  to  bring  home  a  wife,  after 
which  he  would  no  longer  need  Catherine's  services.  And 
now  that  the  spring  had  fully  opened,  Mrs.  Clifton's  health, 
as  usual  at  that  season,  failed,  and  she  really  needed  the 
companionship  and  care  of  our  unprofessed  Sister  of  Charity, 
And,  therefore,  Catherine  accepted  her  proposal,  and  came 
to  take  possession  of  the  room,  Mrs.  Clifton  had  fitted  up 
for  her  adjoining  her  own  chamber.  It  had  once  been  Archer 
Clifton's  room.  That  was  of  no  consequence  to  Catherine 
now,  however.  You  need  not  now  be  told  again  that  the 
girl  was  a  true  Christian.  She  had  great  faith — she  believed 
in  miracles,  asserting  that  the  days  of  miracles  had  not  passed 
—  -could  not  pass  until  the  days  of  God's  Omnipotence  and 
man's  faith  should  be  passed.  When  tho  passion  of  her 
heart  was  about  to  become  the  sin  of  her  soul,  she  prayed  to 
God  to  remove  the  last  vestige  of  that  erring,  ill-fated  love- 
and  it  was  removed — gone  !  She  could  think  of  him.  speak 
of  him,  without  an  altered  pulse.  She  knew  that  he  and  his 
wife  were  soon  expected  at  White  Cliffs,  and  she  felt  that  she 
would  meet  them  again  without  any  other  emotion  than 
plo.isure.  On  the  day  of  her  removal  to  Hardbargain,  Mrs 
Clifton  said  to  her — 


260  LIFE'S     VARIOUS    PHASES. 

"  Catherine!  I  see  by  the  Richmond  Standard,  that  A  relief 
has  resigned  his  post  in  the  army." 

"  It  is  not  possible,  madam  !" 

"  Yes,  indeed.     I  was  very  much  astonished  to  see  it." 

"  What  in  the  world  could  have  been  his  motive  I" 

« I  cannot  even  form  an  idea  No  motive  was  assigned  u 
the  paper." 

"  And  did  he  never  mention  his  intention  to  you  in  any 
of  his  letters  ?" 

"  Never,  Kate.  But  indeed,  I  have  not  heard  from  him 
for  six  weeks.  I  cannot  tell  the  reason  why  he  does  not 
write.  Perhaps  his  letters  have  been  lost — the  foreign  mails 
are  so  irregular. 

"  Was  he  at  Havana  when  you  heard  from  him  last, 
madam  ?" 

"  Yes,  Catherine — but  then  he  spoke  of  a  speedy  return 
home.  They  should  have  been  here  long  before  this  time, 
or  at  least,  he  should  have  written  to  account  for  their  delay 
I  send  Henny  regularly  to  the  post-office — I  have  sent  her 
to  day.  I  hope  I  may  get  a  letter,  though  the  chances  seem 
to  diminish." 

Even  while  they  spoke,  the  girl  came  in  with  a  letter  in 
her  hand.  Mrs.  Clifton  took  it  and  looked  at  it,  saying — 

"  At  last !     It  is  from  Havana,  Catherine,  from  Archer." 

She  opened  it,  and  as  she  read  it,  her  face  became  very 
grave.  And  having  finished,  she  fell  into  thought,  and 
said — 

"  It  is  as  I  feared." 

"  1  trust  there  is  no  bad  news,  madam  ?"  said  Catherine 

"  You  shall  hear,  Kate,"  replied  the  lady,  taking  up  the 
letter  and  reading  as  follows  ; 

"  HAVANA,  May  1, 18—. 
"  MY  DEAR  MADAM — 

"  I  have  to  entreat  your  forgiveness  for  a  silence  of  four  or 
five  weeks.  I  know  that  you  will  pardon  the  seeming  neg 
lect  when  you  are  advised  of  the  cause.  Every  moment  of 
my  time  for  the  last  month  has  been  taken  up  in  attendance 
upon  the  sick  couch  of  my  dearest  Carolyn.  Since  the  open 
ing  of  the  spring,  her  health,  for  the  last  year  so  fragile,  has 
"eurfully  failed.  I  have  had  the  best  medical  advice  to  be 
found  on  the  island,  but  her  illness  has  baffled  their  utmost 
«kill  They  have  recommended  mo  to  take  her  to  the  South 


> 
^ 

CT 


LIFE'S     VARIOUS     PHASES.  2    i 

of  France.  In  order  to  do  this,  I  have  been  obliged  to  re 
sign  my  commission  in  the  army.  You  have  doubtless  scon 
my  resignation  announced  in  the  papers.  I  suppose  the  un 
settled  business  of  the  White  Cliffs  estate  must  also  suiter 
by  my  absence  at  this  time.  But  what  is  that  —  what  is  any 
thing  !  all  things  !  in  comparison  to  the  health  of  my  beloved 
Oarolyn  !  I  write  in  great  haste,  on  the  very  eve  of  sailing, 
for  we  go  on  board  the  Swallow,  bound  from  this  port  to 
Marseilles,  to-day. 

"With  undoing  respect  and  affection, 

"ARCHER  CLIFTOK" 

"  That  is  very  distressing  i  Alas  !  then  is  life  made  up 
of  nothing  but  vain  desires  and  blighted  hopes  —  of  sorrow 
and  sickness  and  death  ?" 

"  I  knew  it  would  be  so,  Catherine  —  that  was  a  secret  rea- 
son  I  had  for  not  meddling  this  last  time  in  bringing  about  a 
reconciliation  between  Carolyn  and  Archer.     I  have  known 
for  two  years  past  that  she  was  following  her  mother.     All) 
those  Gowers  die  early  of  consumption  " 

"  But,  madam,  let  us  hope  better  things.  This  sea  voyage 
tnd  residence  in  the  South  of  France,  may  restore  her." 

"  Never,  Catherine.  And  it  was  even  cruel  in  the  doctor? 
to  send  her  there,  to  die  in  a  foreign  land,  among  strangers. 
They  had  better  have  sent  her  home  to  the  scenes  of  he* 
childhood  and  youth,  where  we  could  have  cheered  and 
nursed  her.  Catherine,  I  feel  very  sad." 

The  tears  were  rolling  down  Kate's  face.     The  fountain)  /'  ^ 
of  consolation  in  her  heart  was  almost  dry  —  and   again  shoi     '  ^ 
had  to  lift  her  heart  to  the  Divine  source  of  all  strengtn  and 
light  for  new  faith  and  hope.     Little  else  but  suffering  and         f* 
sorrow  had  the  girl  seen  since  she  came  into  the  world  —  and  ^ 
no  part  had  she  filled  in  life  but  that  of  servant,  nurse,  or 
comforter. 

The  summer  passed  with  Mrs.  Clifton  and  Catherine  in 
almost  uninterrupted  retirement.  They  heard,  at  long  inter 
vals,  from  Major  Clifton  and  his  bride,  and  then  the  news  was 
various  and  unsatisfactory.  Sometimes  Carolyn  was  better, 
and  there  would  be  a  talk  of  speedy  return,  and,  perhaps, 
the  very  next  letter,  after  a  long  interval,  would  speak  of  a 
season  of  prostration  by  extreme  illness.  And  about  the 
middle  of  tne  autumn,  Mrs.  Clifton  received  a  letter  from 
her  s^n  announcing  their  intention  of  wintering  in  Lisbon. 


2V2  LIFE'S     VARIOUS     PHASES. 

The  irregular  .arrivals  of  these  bulletins  were  the  most  in 
tere-ting,  and  nearly  the  only  interesting  events  of  the  sum 
mer  and  autumn,  if  we  except  a  descent  upon  White  Cliffs 
by  Mrs.  Georgia  and  her  friends.  The  syren,  after  her  re 
turn  frow  a  summer  tour  to  the  fashionable  watering  places, 
determined  to  fill  up  the  dull  interim  before  tl*e  scmmence- 
nient  of  the  season  in  town,  by  a  visit  to  her  '<  seat  in 
H ,"  as  she  persisted  in  calling  White  Cliffs.  Ac 
cordingly,  she  made  up  a  party  of  idle  ladies  and  sporting 
gentlemen,  and  came  down  to  spend  September. 

Colonel  Conyers  was  among  the  guests.  He  renewed  his 
visits  to  Hardbargain,  and  his  suit  to  Catherine — received  a 
second  rejection,  and  hurried  off  to  town,  under  the  sting  of 
mortification  as  before.  At  the  first  of  October,  the  "  city  riff 
raff,"  as  the  old  family  servants  of  Clifton  irreverently  and 
indignantly  called  the  moneyed  aristocrats,  returned  to  Rich 
mond,  whither  they  were  shortly  followed  by  their  beautifuj 
hostess,  to  prepare  for  her  winter  campaign.  From  this 
time  to  the  middle  of  December,  no  event  marked  the  even 
tenor  of  the  life  at  Hardbargain.  The  inmates  had  not 
lately  heard  from  Major  Clifton.  It  was  near  Christmas 
In  her  anxiety  to  hear  from  Lisbon,  Mrs.  Clifton  was  in  th( 
habit  of  sending  to  L —  -  twice  a  week,  when  the  man 
came  in,  and  sitting  up  till  a  verj  ute  hour,  waiting  for  the 
return  of  the  messenger. 

One  evening  after  supper,  Mrs.  t^rfton  and  Catherine  sa 
vach  side  their  work-stand,  before  the  lire,  awaiting  the  ar 
rival  or  the  boy  who  had  been  dispatched  to  the  post-office 
150  often  had  the  lady  thus  sat  and  waited,  and  been  disap 
pointed,  that  hope  waxed  very  faint.  This  time,  however 
&ho  was  destined  to  have  her  heart  gladdened  by  the  fuf 
fruition  01  hope.  About  nine  o'clock  the  messenger  returned 
and  entered  the  parlor  with  a  packet  of  letters  and  papers 
The  boy's  ikce  was  lighted  up  with  sympathetic  joy,  and  he 
exclaimed,  tts  he  handed  the  bundle — 

"  I  almos1  rid  myself  to  death,  mistess,  I  was  so  glad  I 
had  de  lettein1  to  brins;  yer." 

"  You  havo  made  great  haste  indeed,  Neddy.  Go  tell 
Ilenny  to  givb  you  your  supper,'7  said  the  lady. 

"  Good  boy.v  said  Kate, 'pressing  his  little  sooty  hand  as 
he  passed  her  und  went  out. 

Mrs.  Clifton  was  reading  a  letter  from  Archer.  It  wa« 
written  iu  a  glad,  buoyant  spirit  and  contained  the  best 


LIFE'S    VARIOUS    PHASES.  2(>3 

eiblc  news.  Against  all  hope,  Carolyn's  health  since  her 
arrival  at  Lisbon  had  steadily  improved,  and  it  was  now  so 
far  re-established,  that  they  were  already  looking  forward  to 
their  voyage  at  the  earliest  opening  of  spring.  Carolyn  had 
gained  flesh  and  color  as  well  as  health,  and  strength  and 
cheerfulness,  and  was  looking  far  better  than  she  had  looked 
since  his  first  meeting  her  again  at  Richmond.  Mrs.  Clifton 
repeated  all  this  to  Catherine,  adding — 

"  It  is  true,  Kate,  th£t  none  of  her  family  who  have  per 
ished  by  her  disease  ever  tried  a  change  of  climate,  and 
although  in  most  cases  such  a  change  hurries  the  patient  to 
the  grave,  yet,  in  some  instances,  it  seems  to  work  wonders 
in  the  way  of  cure  ;  and  who  knows,  if  Carolyn  is  so  greatly 
benefited,  that  she  may  not  get  over  this  danger,  and  if  not 
positively  cured,  yet  live  to  a  good  old  age,  and  die  at  last 
of  something  else,  as  I  have  heard  of  consumptives  doing. " 

"  I'm  so  glad  !"  Catherine  sat  with  her  face  suffused  with 
the  flush,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  the  tears  of  sympathizing 
joy  and  thanksgiving.  After  reading  and  re-reading  the 
letter,  and  dwelling  on  it,  arid  talking  of  it,  Mrs.  Clifton 
finally  unfolded  the  paper,  the  Richmond  Standard,  and 
running  her  eyes  over  its  columns,  suddenly  exclaimed — 

"  Catherine,  *  When  joys  come  they  coine  not  as  single 
spies  but  in  battalions' — here  is  excellent  news  of  an  old 
friend — listen — only  two  or  three  lines  among  the  { items'  of 
a  newspaper  column,  yet  of  what  great  moment  to  many — 
hear."  And  the  lady  read  : — "  At  the  conclusion  of  the 
recent  treaty  of  peace  between  this  government  and  the 
Shoshonowa  Nation,  among  the  prisoners  held  to  ransom  was  . 
the  gallant  Captain  Fairfax,  supposed  to  have  fallen  under\f 
their  tomahawks,  at  the  massacre  near  Fort  Protection. 
This  brave  but  unfortunate  officer  is  now  understood  to  be 
on  his  way  to  the  seat  of  government." 

Catherine  was  positively  speechless  with  joy;  only  her 
clasped  hands  and  fervent  countenance  revealed  what  she 
felt.  In  the  great,  though  calm  surprise  and  rejoicings  over 
the  event,  these  friends  forgot  its  singularity,  until  after  a 
long  TV'hile  Catherine  exclaimed — 

"  Poor  Zuleime  !  Oh,  how  could  such  a  fatal  misrepre 
sentation  have  been  made  of  the  case  ?  It  was  reported  that 
he  was  cloven  down  from  his  saddle,  and  then  butchered  !v 

•*  It  was  not  a  willful  misrepresentation.  It  was  a  misap 
prehension  The  few  who  escaped  to  tell  the  tale  of  the 


264  LIFE'S    VARIOUS    PHASES. 

massacre,  no  doubt  had  seen  him  struck  down  ;  and 
yon  see  in  the  terror  and  confusion,  they  imagined  the  rest — 
knowing  perfectly  well  that  scalping  and  rifling  the  bodies 
are  the  almost  invariable  custom  of  the  savages  ?  And  then 
remember,  Catherine,  the  body  taken  for  the  corpse  of  Cap 
tain  Fairfax,  was  so  rifled  and  mutilated,  as  to  be  unrecog 
nizable,  except  upon  circumstantial  evidence." 

"  So  indeed  it  was  said  to  be  !  I  would  the  mistake  had 
never  been  made  though!  Tt  killed  Zuleime!" 

"  Catherine,  my  child,  I  have  no  idea  that  Zu?eime  was 
really  drowned." 

"Madam!" 

"  Do  you  not  know,  Catherine,  that  any  body  drowned  in  that 
part  of  the  river  where  the  supposed  signs  of  her  suicide  were 
found,  must  have  come  to  light.  Don't  you  know  that  the 
current  is  very  rapid  there,  and  that  a  ledge  of  rocks  crosses 
the  river  a  few  yards  below  it,  upon  which  her  body  must 
have  been  thrown,  if  she  had  been  in  the  river  at  all  ?  And, 
Catherine,  if  I  have  never  breathed  this  thought  before,  it  was 
upon  account  of  poor  Carolyn.  I  knew  that  in  her  weak,  de 
pressed  state  of  mind  and  body,  she  could  better  bear  the 
belief  of  Zuleime's  death,  than  the  frightful  uncertainty  of 
her  fate.  You  are  discreet,  Kate ;  you  will  not  breathe 
this  to  Carolyn,  or  to  any  one,  lest  it  should  reach  hor  ear." 

"  Never !  And  do  you  know,  dear  Mrs.  Clifton,  I  have 
sometimes  had  the  thought  that  Zuleime  might  yet  be  living — 
and  I  dared  not  indulge  the  hope  secretly — much  less  breathe 
it  aloud." 

"  And  what  was  your  reason  for  such  a  supposition, 
Catherine  ?" 

/  "  Why  my  thought  was  not  so  well  founded — so  logical  as 
yours.  I  knew  nothing  about  the  peculiarities  of  the  river. 
My  thought  was  only  a  vague  hope,  and  it  agitated  me  so 
mach  as  to  interfere  with  my  practical  duties.  I  had  to 
banish  it." 

"  \  ou  are  so  sensitive,  so  sympathetic,  my  dear  girl 
Well,  Kate,  no  more  exciting  talk  to-night.  We  will  return 
thanks  to  God  fcr  these  glad  tidings,  and  then  retire  to 
rest." 


ZULBIMB. 


CUAPTER  XXIII. 

ZULEB1E. 
Among  a  jumbled  heap  of  murky  buildings. — KEATS. 

ZULEIME  had  been  placed  by  Georgia  under  the  care  of  a 
poor  woman,  the  wife  of  a  carver  and  gilder,  who  had  occa 
sionally  worked  for  her  father.  And  as  long  as  the  funds 
of  the  belle  had  held  out,  the  trifling  expenses  of  such  poor 
board  and  lodging  had  been  regularly  paid.  But  when  the 
syren  was  reduced  to  support  her  own  extravagance  entirely 
by  credit,  founded  upon  the  false  reputation  of  wealth — her 
small  remittances  to  her  protege,  or  rather  her  victim,  ceased. 
Zuleime  was  afraid  to  seek  her,  afraid  to  write  to  her — there 
was  nothing  she  feared  more  than  discovery,  and  the 
recognition  of  her  hand-writing  on  the  superscription  of  a 
letter  might  have  led  to  that.  It  was  long  after  the  death 
of  her  father  before  she  heard  of  it — nor  then  did  she  hear 
any  of  the  particulars  of  time,  place  or  circumstance.  The 
fact  came  to  her  knowledge  irregularly,  through  the  report 
of  the  transcendant  charms  and  conquests  of  his  beautiful 
young  widow.  A  long  and  dangerous  illness  was  the  result 
of  this  sudden  news.  It  was  some  weeks  after  her  recovery 
before  the  poor  people  of  the  house,  who  had  long  despaired 
of  getting  anything  for  her  board,  could  find  it  in  their  kind 
hearts  to  ask  her  to  seek  another  home.  And  even  then  they 
sent  a  sigh  after  the  desolate  young  widow — the  child  who 
went  forth  carrying  in  her  arms  another  child.  And  bow 
she  lived  during  the  interval  between  that  and  the  period  at 
which  I  shall  again  introduce  her  to  you,  I  cannot  tell. 
Sometimes  a  little  fine  needle-work  came  to  her  hands  ;  some 
times  a  spell  of  want,  reaching  almost  to  starvation  ;  then  a 
little  assistance  from  neighbors  ;  and  a  little  going  m  debt  to 
shopkeepers.  And  then  she  always  lodged  with  tlie  poor- 
And  the  poor  seldom  persecute  the  poor ;  remember  thal 
ihe  need  family  who  first  sheltered  her,  had  been  foi 


2 '5  6  ZULEIME. 

at  the  solo  expense  of  her  food,  lodging,  and  long  illnoss- 
and  yet  they  had  never  reproached  or  persecuted  her  for  un 
paid  debts — though  they  scarcely  refrained  from  reproaching 
themselves  for  sending  her  away. 

In  a  quiet,  back  street,  mostly  inhabited  by  very  humble 
people,  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  and  fronting  immediately 
upon  the  battered  pavement,  stood  an  old  two-story  brick 
house,  occupied  by  a  poor  cabinet-maker  and  old  furniture 
dealer.  The  lower  front  room  was  used  as  the  ware-room, 
and  crowded  and  piled  up  with  every  description  of  nrisera* 
bly  dilapidated  household  furniture,  apparently  good  foi 
nothing  else  under  the  sun  but  kindling  wood,  and  scarcely 
worth  splitting  up  for  that.  Old  worm-eaten,  carved  ma 
hogany  bureaus  and  bedsteads  ;  tables  without  legs  or  leaves: 
chairs  without  backs  ;  cradles  without  bottoms  or  rockers  ; 
clocks  wanting  faces ;  beaufets  wanting  doors  ;  sofas  minus 
arms  ;  smoky  pictures  without  frames  ;  and  tarnished  frames 
without  pictures  ;  worm-eaten  cabinets,  and  mildewed  look 
ing-glasses  ;  broken  pots,  pans  and  kettles ;  and  mismatched 
orockery-w.are  in  any  quantity. 

Reader,  I  do  not  wish  to  give  you  an  inventory  of  an  old 
furniture-shop,  but  merely  some  idea  of  the  inextricable  eon~ 
fusion  in  which  this  heterogeneous  mass  of  worn-out,  broken, 
worm-eaten,  mildewed,  fly-stained,  dust-clothed,  cobweb' 
veiled  items,  were  piled  up  from  floor  to  ceiling.  It  would  make 
your  heart  and  head  ache  with  wondering  what  sort  of  a  liv 
ing  could  be  picked  out  from  so  much  dirt,  disorder  and 
decay — and  who  on  earth  could  be  the  patrons  of  the  establish 
ment.  You  would  unconsciously  gather  close  about  you 
your  most  worthless  dress  in  passing  through  the  shop,  and 
look  up  in  involuntary  dread  of  a  broken  head  or  limbs,  by 
the  fall  of  some  of  those  dilapidated,  ill-balanced,  old  chairs 
and  tables. 

The  family  of  the  chair-maker  consisted  of  himself,  his 
wife,  and  twro  daughters.  They  were  Germans,  with  the 
usual  talent  of  that  race  for  money-getting  and  money-keep 
ing.  And  the  man  made  at  least  a  hundred  per  cent,  on 
every  old,  rickety,  worm-eaten  bureau  or  table  that,  mended 
and  varnished,  left  his  shop.  They  added  to  their  income, 
by  letting  the  rooms  of  their  house,  and  occasionally  by 
taking  a  profitable  boarder. 

It  was  in  the  early  part  of  the  same  autumn  which  found 
h«r  sister  Cardyn  in  Lisbon — and  Mrs  Clifton  and  Catlie* 


ZULEIME.  26. 

rinc  alone  at  Hardbargain,  that  Zulcime  became  a  tenant  of 
the  German  cabinet-maker.  She  occupied  the  back  room, 
on  the  second  floor  ;  the  two  daughters  of  the  family  using 
the  front  room  as  a  sleeping  apartment.  She  had  the  use  of 
the  street,  passage  door,  and  so  reached  her  room  without 
passing  through  the  shop  or  any  part  of  the  house  occu 
pied  by  the  family  or  their  boarders.  The  refinement  in 
which  she  had  been  born  and  bred,  was  not  lost  amid  bei 
bitter  poverty.  It  constrained  her  to  seek  privacy  of  life  at 
least.  She  supported  herself  and  child,  just  now,  by  doi  ig  "7 
fine  needle-work  for  some  ladies  on  a  transient  visit  to  the 
city.  But  the  work  was  precarious,  and  the  supply  might 
be  cut  off  at  any  moment.  Her  expenses  were  small,  how 
ever,  and  her  economy  wonderful.  Her  neat,  but  poorly 
furnished  room,  cost  her  but  ten  shillings  a  month  ;  a  bushe . 
of  meal  apd  a  pint  of  salt,  five  shillings ;  milk  for  the  child, 
two  shillings  ;  fuel,  eight  shillings  ;  washing,  three  shillings  ; 
candle-light,  two  shillings  ;  and  the  attendance  of  a  boy  to 
bring  water  and  cut  wood,  three  shillings — making  the  sum 
total  of  her  monthly  expenses  only  one  pound,  fourteen  shil 
lings,  or  little  more  than  six  dollars.  Her  only  food  wag 
mush  or  corn-cakes  prepared  from  the  meal.  She  could  not 
have  kept  up  very  long  under  this  regimen  ;  indeed,  although 
she  knew  it  not,  she  was  slowly  dying  of  a  disease  as  com 
mon  as  lingering,  and  as  universally  ignored  as  that  of  a 
broken  heart — namely,  innutrition  or  slow  starvation.  Her 
German  hostess,  kind-hearted,  notwithstanding  her  money 
grasping  propensities,  often  sent  her  a  bowl  of  "  noodle  soup," 
with  a  little  plate  of  "  sour-krout,"  and  a  tumbler  of 
schnapps,  or  some  such  combination  of  German  luxuiles. 
But  Zuleime,  who  managed  to  exist  upon  coarse  food,  could 
not  endure  gross  food,  and  she  would  turn  away  from 
such,  scarcely  able  to  conceal  the  sickness  the  very  odor  so 
appetizing  to  a  Dutch  stomach,  excited  in  hers.  Still  her 
refusal  of  the  viands  was  couched  in  words  so  gentle  and 
grateful,  as  never  to  offend  her  landlady.  Some  of  my 
readers  may  wonder  why  Zuleime  did  not  do  her  washing, 
water-drawing,  etc.,  with  her  own  hands,  and  take  the  mone/ 
paid  for  having  those  things  done,  and  buy  better  food  l. 
Because,  for  one  reason,  she  had  not  the  requisite  physical 
strength  or  skill — and  besides,  perhaps,  she  shrank  from  the 
exposure  necessarily  incurred  in  these  labors.  She  had  not  in 
these  two  years,  forgotten  tho  delicacy  and  refinement  in  which 


208  ZULEIMB. 

she  had  been  nurtured.  On  the  contrary,  everything  in  hei 
appearance  and  manners,  betrayed  the  gentle-woman.  She 
had  but  one  dress  in  the  world — all  the  others  had  been  cut 
up  to  make  clothes  for  her  little  girl.  Her  sole  gown  was 
black  bombazine,  which  she  had  worn  daily  for  nearly  two 
years — yet  so  good  was  its  original  quality,  and  so  well  had 
it  been  preserved,  that  it  was  now  neither  rusty  nor  thread 
bare.  It  was  shaken  out  and  hung  up  every  night,  and  well 
brushed  and  spunged  every  week.  This  dress,  with  the 
little  inside  'kerchief  of  linen,  was  always  neat*  and  lady-like. 
Zuleime's  fine  needle-work  gave  out — as  she  knew  it  would — 
and  she  found  herself  without  employment,  or  funds.  It  was 
then  that  Bertha  and  Wilhelmina  Erhmientraut,  the  daugh 
ters  of  her  landlord,  told  her  of  a  German  clothier  on  Main 
street,  who  had  advertised  for  a  number  of  needle-women  to 
make  vests.  Zuleime  confessed  her  total  ignorance  of  that 
branch  of  needle  work.  But  the  kind  German  girls  promised 
that  if  she  would  procure  the  work,  they  would  give  her 
some  instructions  how  it  should  be  done.  Zuleime  gratefully 
accepted  their  offer,  and  prepared  to  set  out  on  her  long 
walk  by  donning  the  little  black  bonnet  and  shawl,  as  neat 
and  as  well  preserved  as  her  dress  had  been.  She  could  not 
father  tax  the  kindness  of  her  landlord's  family  by  leaving 
her  child  in  their  care,  she  had  been  obliged  to  put  the  little 
one  to  sleep,  and  lock  it  up  in  her  room,  only  leaving  her 
key  with  her  landlady — "  in  case  anything  should  happen" 
while  she  was  gone.  It  was  a  long,  weary  tramp  to  Main 
street,  where  the  clothier's  store  was  situated.  When  she 
entered  the  show-shop  and  made  her  business  known,  she  was 
directed  into  a  back  room,  where  a  man,  behind  a  long  table, 
was  engaged  in  cutting  out  garments — and  many  bundles  of 
sut  out  but  unmade  clothes,  tied  around  with  skeins  of  thread, 
lay  piled  up  at  one  end.  Zuleime  walked  up  to  this  table. 
The  foreman,  as  he  appeared  to  be,  laid  down  his  shears  and 
'ooked  up,  saying  deferentially — 

'  What  did  you  wish  to  look  at,  madam  ?     Mr.  Schneider, 
attend  this  lady." 

"  You  are  in  error.     I  do  not  wish  to  look  at  your  wares. 

Ton  advertised  work  to  give  out ;  can  I  have  some  ?" 

s-  The  tailor  looked  at  her  again.     He  saw,  from  her  gentle 

manners  and  appearance,  that  she  was  a  lady,  guessed  from 

I  her  dress  that  she  was  a  widow,  and  knew  by  her  errand  that 

j^ihe  was  self-dependei t,  unprotected;    so  there  existed  no 


StULEIME. 


enrthly  reason  why  a  coarse-minded,  craven-hearted  man,*) 
JVLH.  spent  his  whole  days  in  smirking,  cringing,  deprecating/ 
and  deferring  to  others,  should  not  refresh  his  soul  by  a  little/ 
impertinence  and  insolence  to  so  safe  a  subject  as  a.  poor\ 


d  you  ever  make  vests?"  he  asked,  in  a  short,  curt, 
Hisolewt  manner. 

"N»  ."  answered  Zuleime,  "  but  T  sew  very  neatly-  -un 
usually  neatly,  my  patrons  say  —  and  as  you  cut  arid  baste 
the  wo»K,  very  little  instruction  would  enable  me  to  make 
them  vt.y  nicely." 

"  I  shan't  trust  you  !  I  have  had  quite  enough  in  my  tin  e 
of  giving  out  work  to  people  who  know  nothing  about  the 
business/' 

It  was  tot  the  words  so  much  as  the  insulting  manner  (  f 
the  man  that  shocked  the  gentle-hearted  woman,  and  she 
turned  and  left  the  shop,  ready  to  sink,  not  so  much  under 
disappointment,  though  she  knew  not  where  to  turn  for  work 
or  money  ».r  food  —  but  under  the  deeply  humiliating  sense 
of  the  rudt  aess  and  vulgarity  to  which  she  was  forced  to  ex 
pose  herself  in  this  bitter  struggle  through  the  world.  She 
walked  slowly,  thoughtfully,  sadly  away  from  the  shop,  till 
the  sudden  thought  of  her  child's  awakening,  electrified  her. 
and  she  hutried  on  until  she  reached  home.  She  obtained 
her  key  froui  the  landlady,  in  the  basement,  and  entered  the 
passage.  It  was  then  that  she  heard  a  very  sweet,  gentle 
voice,  apparently  near  her  room  door,  saying  — 

"  Don't  crj,  baby  !  poor  baby,  don't  cry  !  mother  will  come 
by-and-by  !  Dear  pretty  baby,  don't  cry  !  I'll  bring  you 
all  my  playthings,  and  a  little  dog,  when  I  can  get  in." 

And  then,  in  the  pause  of  the  child's  wails  and  broken 
talk,  and  baby  plaints,  she  ran  up  stairs  at  once,  and  there, 
kneeling  before  her  door,  and  talking  through  the  key-hole, 
was  a  sweet  little  dark  haired  girl  of  about  five  years  old, 
and  dressed  in  deep  mourning.  Her  hat  of  the  finest  Leg 
horn  straw,  the  richness  of  the  black  ribbon  that  bound  it  — 
(he  fineness  of  the  black  bombazine  frock  and  the  linen  cam- 
brio  tucker,  the  delicate  shoes  and  stockings  —  the  gentle,  re 
fined  manner,  all  bespoke  a  child  of  a  different  rank  from 
those  seen  in  that  neighborhood,  and  especially  in  that  house. 
The  child  got  up  and  stood  aside  when  she  saw  the  lady  come 
with  the  key  to  unlock  the  door.  When  Zuleime  had  cu- 
terei4  her  room,  and  lifted  the  babe  to  her  lap,  she  called  the 


270  ZULETMB. 

little  girl  up  to  her  side.  She  was  a  lovely  child  indeed, 
with  fair  skin  and  delicate  features— jet-black  hair,  eye 
brows  and  eye-lashes,  and  large,  mournful,  dark  gray  eyes. 

"  You  are  a  dear  little  girl.  What  is  your  name  V-  asked 
Zulrime,  pulling  her  around  her  waist  caressingly. 

u  [,]a See  what  a  nice  new  black  dress  I've  got.  They 

gave  it  to  me  when  father  died.  Mother  wears  one,  too. 
Vou've  got  a  black  dress  on,  too  !  Is  your  father  dead  V 

"  Yes,  darling,"  said  Zuleime,  with  her  eyes  suffused. 

"  Don't  cry,  please  !  Mother  cries  so  much.  I  do  wish 
she  wouldn't !  Is  the  baby's  father  dead,  too  ?" 

«  Yes — yes,  love — the  baby's  father  is  dead,  too  !" 

«  Well — please  don't  cry  so !  Mother  says  we  have  all 
got  a  father  in  Heaven  !  Oh !  please  don't  cry  so  !  It  gives 
me  such  a — such  an  ache  m  the  breast  to  see  anybody  cry 
so,"  said  the  child,  and  her  mournful,  but  most  beautiful  eyes 
assumed  a  pleading,  painful,  almost  querulous  look. 

"  Who  is  your  mother,  sweet  Ida  ?"  asked  Zuleime,  to 
change  the  subject  of  her  own  and  her  little  companion's 
thoughts. 

"  Mrs.  Knight,  you  know,  the  leading  lady.  Did  they 
put  the  baby's  father  in  a  long  red  box,  and  send  him  away  1" 

"  Yes,  yes,  Ida.     Where  does  your  mother  live  ]" 

"  She  lives  here,  in  the  back  room,  down  stairs.  We  came 
to-day.  Sbe  is  going  to  play  to-night,  and  then  I'll  be  by 
myself.  Did  they  hold  the  baby  up  to  kiss  her  father  like 
they  did  me  ?  And  did  he  put  his  hand  on  her  head  and 
call  her  his  fawn-eyed  darling  ?  That  was  when  he  was  01- 
the  bed.  And  afterwards  he  went  to  sleep.  And  they  said 
he  was  dead.  Was  that  the  way  with  the  baby's  father  ?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it,  dear  Ida.  Tell  me  of  your 
mother.  What  does  she  play  on — the  organ  ?" 

^  No !  I  don't  know.  Yes  1  do,  too  ! — the  stage.  Look 
at  my  nice  new  hat.  It  used  to  have  a  wreath  of  red  ros<>s 
round  it.  But  when  father  died,  mother  took  it  off  and  put 
this  black  ribbon  there.  Mother  wears  roses  on  her  head, 
though.  At  night,  I  mean.  All  day  long  she  wears  black, 
and  looks  so  pale  and  weeps.  But  at  night,  she  puts  beauti 
ful  flowers  in  her  hair,  and  sometimes  gold  and  fine  feathers— 
and  she  has  such  sweet  long  curls  and  rosy  cheeks — and  such 
beautiful  dresses.  And  father  used  to  wear  beautiful  clothes 
at  night,  red  and  gold,  and  feathers.  I  do  want  to  see  father 
BO  ittui-l..  I  vusl.  they'd  bring  him  back.  Do  you  think  it 


ZULEIME.  27J 

will  be  long  before  I  see  him  V  asked  the  child,  as  the  largo 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Perhaps  Mot,  my  love.  Is  your  mother  an  actress,  then  *' 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  she  is.  Don't  cry,  now  !  It  gives  m« 
a  pain  in  my  bosom.  Please  don't  cry  ;  if  you  don't,  /  won't," 
said  the  child,  wiping  her  eyes.  Then  suddenly  she  exclaimed, 
"  Oh !  I  forgot,  I  promised  to  bring  the  baby  my  playthings 
and  my  curly  dog ;"  and  so  saying,  the  child  ran  away  and 
scampered  down  stairs. 

Zuleime  looked  in  vain  for  her  return,  and  finally  con 
cluded  that  her  mother  had  detained  her.  But  if  the  child 
did  not  come,  somebody  else  did.  Wilhelmina  entered,  and 
kindly  inquired  after  her  lodger's  success  in  seeking  work. 
When  she  learned  her  failure,  she  begged  Zuleime  not  to  bo 
troubled,  for  that  there  was  work  in  the  house  for  her  if  she 
would  take  it.  That  the  new  boarder,  Mrs.  Knight,  the  lead 
ing  lady  of  the  Richmond  Theatre,  wanted  assistance  in 
making  up  some  dresses,  that  were  to  be  ready  in  a  few  days. 
That  she,  Wilhelmina,  had  recommended  their  lodger,  and 
if  the  young  lady  pleased,  she  would  conduct  her  down  and 
introduce  her  to  Mrs.  Knight.  Zuleime  thanked  the  kind- 
hearted  girl,  and  prepared  to  accompany  her — sensible  amid 
all  her  other  emotions  of  a  rustic's  curiosity  to  see  a  really 
living  actress,  for  she  had  never  in  her  life  seen  one  off  the 
boards.  She  followed  \Vilhelmina  down  the  stairs  into  the 
passage.  Near  the  foot  of  the  stairs  was  a  door  leading  into 
the  first  floor  back  room.  •  At  this  door  Wilhelmina  rapped. 
It  was  opened  by  Ida,  who,  as  soon  as  she  saw  Zuleime,  ex 
claimed — 

"  Oh  !  it's  you !  Come  in.  Mother !  here  is  the  baby's 
mother!" 

"  It  is  I,  Mrs.  Knight,  with  the  person  I  spoke  of.  Mav 
we  come  in  "*"  inquired  Wilhelmina. 

"  Assuredly.  Do  so,"  replied  the  sweetest,  deepest  voice 
Ziilchnc  thought  she  had  ever  heard.  And  they  entered  the 
room.  Wilhelmina  introduced  Mrs.  Fairfax,  and  withdrew. 
The  apartment  in  which  Zuleime  found  herself,  was  the  best 
furnished  room  in  the  house — decidedly — having  a  good  warm, 
hucd  carpet  on  the  floor,  crimson  stuff,  curtains  at  the  only 
back  window,  a  grate  with  a  coal  fire,  a  four-post  bedstead, 
with  tester,  net  valance  and  a  white  counterpane,  a 
bureau  with  tall  dressing-glass,  and  wash-stand,  with  china 
t  ^ilet  serv'ce.  B¥  i  it  was  in  a  state  of  confusion  only  lesr 


272  ZULEIME. 

than  that  of  the  adjoining  shop.  Trunks,  boxes,  and  band 
boxes  of  all  sizes,  forms  and  colors,  some  corded  and  piled 
up  one  above  the  other,  and  some  open  and  boiling  up  and 
over  with  all  sorts  of  finery  and  tinsel,  satins,  silks  and  vel 
vets,  feathers,  flowers  and  fustian,  which  also  trailed  upon 
the  carpet,  and  strewed  the  chairs.  An  oil  painting,  in  a 
large  heavy  gilt  frame,  leaned  with  its  face  against  the  wall. 
On  the  bed,  a  ^ackjnantle ..aadJionnet,  with  a  widow's  veil, 
lay  sideTy  side  with  a  gorgeous  scarlet  velvet  train,  embroi 
dered  with  gold,  an  imitation  ermine  robe,  a  crown  of  gilt 
and  paste,  a  plume  of  feathers,  and  great  bunches  of  sham 
pearls.  On  a  low  trunk,  in  the  midst  of  this  sad  chaos  of 
poverty  and  glitter,  mummery  and  mourning,  sat  one  who 
immediately  drew  and  fixed  Zuleime's  attention.  A  tall, 
noble  looking  woman,  of  perhaps  thirty  years  of  age,  clothed 
in  deep  mourning,  with  her  heavy  black  hair  banded  around 
her  forehead  and  temples,  and  shading  a  countenance  dark 
and  cavernous,  with  its  large  hollow  eyes  and  hollow  cheeks, 
but  majestic  with  power,  earnestness  and  truth,  and  beautiful 
with  those  grand,  mournful  eyes,  whose  mesmeric  spell  was 
felt  by  Zuleime,  on  whom  they  were  now  brought  to  bear. 

"  Take  a  seat,  Mrs.  Fairfax.  You  find  me  here  in  great 
Confusion,  because  I  have  but  just  arrived,  and  have  had  to 
dnpack  and  look  over  all  these  trunks,  to  select  and  prepare 
no  less  than  four  costumes  for  the  evening,"  said  the  same 
rich,  full,  deep  tones,  as  their  owner  cleared  a  chair  of 
spangled  robes  and  plumes,  and  offered  it  to  her  visitor. 

"  Mother  is  going  to  wear  this  dress  this  evening — isn't  it 
pretty?"  said  Ida,  climbing  upon  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Zuleime  turned  her  eyes  with  childish  interest  towards  the 
lobes;  and  Mrs.  Knight,  observing  her  look  of  curiosity, 
said  - 

"  They  fjrru  a  portion  of  the  Queen  Kathcrine  costume. 
They  are  going  to  bring  out  Henry  VIII.,  this  evening." 

Zuleime  glanced  from  the  costume  to  the  haggard,  but 
noble-looking  woman,  and  thought  that  she  mighfVepre^ent 
the  unhappy  Queen  very  well,  as  far  as  personal  appearance 
would  go,  but  instead  of  expressing  this  opinion,  she  said — 

"  The  young  German  girl  told  me  that  you  wanted  some 
assistance  in  needle-work.  I  shall  be  glad  to  help  you." 

The  dark,  mournful  eyes  rose  slowly,  and  grew  still,  '.ook- 
ing  at  the  young  widow,  in  whom  they  now  began  to  rucog- 
nizo  that  mo«t  piteous  of  all  beings — a  reduced  lady. 


ZULEIME.  27'j 

"  Sit  down — pri}  sit  down,"  slie  said,  to  Zuleimo,  who  still 
enmined  standing. 

Zuleime  took  the  vacant  chair. 

"  Would  you  object,  Mrs.  Fairfax,  to  sitting  with  me  while 
jrou  sew  ?  There  are  alterations  to  be  maae  in  these  four 
^ueen  Katherine  dresses,  in  which  you  would  require  my 
idvice." 

Zuleime  hesitated,  and  then  answered — 

"  I  should  not  like  to  leave  my  little  child  alone,  madam. 

"  Let  me  ! — let  me  ! — let  me  go  up  and  stay  with  the  baby!'- 
eagerly  interrupted  Ida,  jumping  down  from  the  bed,  and 
running  up  and  seizing  the  hand  of  her  mother. 

The  dark  eyes  sank  fondly  on  the  little  one,  and  the  rich 
voice — richer  now  with  maternal  love,  replied — 

"  Certainly  you  may  go,  if  the  lady  will  permit  you  to  do 
so." 

Zuleime  hesitated  again,  then  said — 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  be  very  glad.  Let  me  go  up  first, 
ond  make  the  fire  safe."  And  she  left  the  room,  followed  by 
Ida,  who  ran  back  first,  to  throw  her  arms  around  her  mo 
ther's  neck,  and  kiss  her  "  good-bye." 

When  Zuleime  reached  her  room,  she  placed  the  blower 
before  the  grate,  for  safety — hid  away  all  implements  with 
which  the  children  might  harm  themselves,  and  leaving  the 
little  ones  at  play  upon  the  rag  carget,  returned  below  stairs, 
and  went  to  work.  Her  new  occupation  was  indeed  of  an 
odd  and  miscellaneous  description — ripping  off  gold  lace, 
and  sewing  in  its  place  imitation  sable  ;  trimming  buskins, 
and  lastly,  making  up  an  ancient  coiffure,  ail  under  the  direc 
tion  of  the  shadowy-faced  woman,  who,  all  this  time,  s»*  upon 
the  trunk,  with  a  tattered  play-book  on  her  knee,  studying 
her  part. 

Zuleime  spoke  of  Ida — her  beauty,  her  charming  manner. 

"  Is  she  ?  Do  you  find  her  so  ?  I  thought  that  might  be 
only  my  partiality.  Poor  little  one  !  She  is  a  great  comfort 
and  a  great  sorrow  to  me,  if  you  can  understand  such  a 
paradox." 

"  Yes,  I  can  understand  it,"  said  Zuleime. 

"  I  have  to  leave  her  all  the  forenoon,  for  the  purpose  of 
attending  the  rehearsals,  and  then,  before  it  is  time  for  her  to 
go  to  bed,  I  have  to  leave  her,  alone,  and  go  to  the  theatre,  aiid 
be  absent  till  a  late  hour  of  the  night.  And  then  the  fear 
*f  fire,  or  of  accident,  while  I  am  gone  from  her,  wears  in* 


274  ZULE1ME. 

out.  Worse  than  that,  all  clay  and  night,  while  away  from 
her.  is  the  dread  of  her  getting  in  the  street,  and  into  evil 
company."  And  the  eyes  of  the  woman  assumed  an  anxious, 
hagcrird,  querulous  look,  as  she  dropped  them  upon  her  book. 
*V(;ive  y0ur  little  girl  into  my  care.  I  am  never  absent 
from  home  except  early  in  the  morning — as  to-day — and  al 
that  hour  you  are  here." 

The  dark  eyes  flew  up  and  fastened  themselves  upon  the 
face  of  Zuleime,  and  the  deep  voice  inquired — 

"  Would  you  really  take  charge  of  her  for  me  ?  Oh,  it 
is  too  much  for  you,  and  too  good  in  you.  I  don't  under 
stand  it." 

"  Indeed  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  do  so.  The  presence  of 
a  lovely  child  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me.  Leave  Ida  with  me 
this  evening  while  you  are  gone,  and  I  will  put  her  to  bed 
when  the  time  comes." 

"  For  this  evening  I  will  gratefully  accept  your  kindness, 
but  you  may  find  her  more  inconvenient  than  you  anticipate," 
said  Mrs.  Knight.  And  then  she  dropped  her  eyes  again 
upon  her  book,  and  Zuleime  went  on  silently  with  her  sewing. 
About  sunset  the  work  was  nearly  completed,  and  the  cos 
tume,  with  the  exception  of  the  coiffure,  upon  which  Zuleime 
was  still  engaged,  was  packed  in  band-boxes,  to  be  conveyed 
to  the  theatre.  Then  Mrs.  Knight  rang  a  little  hand  bell, 
and  when  it  was  answered  by  the  entrance  of  Bertha  Erh- 
mientraut,  she  said, — "  Please  send  me  a  lad  to  carry  these 
boxes  for  me,  and  ask  your  mother  to  make  me  a  very  strong 
cup  of  coffee." 

Bertha  disappeared,  and  Mrs.  Knight  put  on  her  bonnet 
and  shawl.  And  soon  a  ragged  boy  appeared  at  the  door, 
who  agreed  to  carry  the  boxes  for  a  sixpence.  Mrs.  Knight 
loaded  and  dispatched  him  at  the  same  moment  that  Bertha 
re-appeared  with  a  huge  cup  of  strong  coffee,  which  she  took 
Lrid  drank  off,  standing.  Then,  as  she  handed  back  the  empty 
cup  to  the  German  girl,  and  received  from  Zuleime  the 
finished  coiffure  pinned  up  in  a  paper,  she  said — 

*'  That  cup  of  coffee  will  give  me  strength  to  go  through 
my  heavy  part  to-night,  but  will  leave  me  at  its  close  more 
exhausted  than  ever  ;•  thus  I  discount  future  health  and  life 
for  present  bread  "  AnjLso,_sJb.e  went  off,  her  eyes  gleaming 
under  the  excitement  of  a  stimulant  narcotic,  as  fatal,  if  not 
as  disreputable,  as  opium  or  alcohol.  Zuleimu  went  up  to 
ncr  own  room,  and  prepared  the  frugal  supper  for  herself  and 


7.TTLEIME.  275 

fhc  two  Children,  that  were  still  play  in  *  on  the  carpet.  Sh* 
goc  a  double  portion  of  milk  from  the  German  people,  on  ac 
count  of  her  little  guest,  Ida  declaring  that  she  liked  milk 
with  corn  cake  crumbled  in  it  better  than  anything,  it  was  so 
sweet.  And  then  when  the  babe  was  undressed  and  put  to 
bed,  the  little  girl's  eyes  waxed  heavy  and  dim,  and  Zuleime 
took  her  down  stairs  into  her  mother's  room,  and  disrobed 
and  washed  and  prepared  her  for  bed.  And  when  the  child 
was  about  to  kiss  her  friend  and  spring  into  bed,  Zuleime 
said  — 

"  Stor,  Ida.     Don't  you  say  your  prayers  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  But  don't  you  wish  to  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  child,  and  running  back,  she 
kneeled  down  at  Zuleime's  knees,  and  placed  her  little  hands 
together  and  looked  up  for  instruction. 

Zuleime  thought  the  shortest,  simplest  infant's  prayer  she 
knew  of  was  the  best,  because  readily  understood  and  easily 
remembered.  And  so  she  took  the  little  one's  folded  hands 
between  her  own,  and  bade  her  repeat  after  her — 

"  Now  f  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep. 
If  I  should  die  before  1  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take.'' 

"  That  is  a  sweet  little  verse.  What  is  my  soul  ?"  asked 
the  child. 

Zuleime  hesitated,  puzzled  for  an  answer ;  then  she  said 
for  want  of  a  better — 

"  It  is  what  you  think  with,  and  wonder  with,  and  what 
you  are  sorry  or  glad  with,  and  what  will  live  forever." 

"  I  love  you  with  it  then.     Good-night,  good,  pretty  lady." 

"  Good-night,  sweet  child."     And  Zuleirae  laid  her  in  the 
bed,  and  kissed  her  fair  eyelids  down  to  slumber. 
VOL.  II, 


276  THE      CATASTROPHE, 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE   CATASTROPHE. 

To  die  mid  flame  and  smoke  ! — 


j 

rTlEAVEN  knows  that  it  is  now  difficult  enough  for  a  pool 
woman  to  make  a  living.  But  in  the  days  when  Zuleime 
'ivod  and  suffered,  it  was  even  more  so.  It  was  especially 
hard  in  Virginia,  where,  owing  to  the  prevalence  of  the  law 
of  entail,  the  rich  were  very  rich,  and  the  poor  very  poor. 
Where,  besides,  ladies  took  pride  in  their  domestic  and  in 
dustrious  habits,  the  favorite  and  most  inveterate  of  which 
was  that  of  doing  their  own  sewing,  forgetful  of  the  poor 
widow  and  orphan,  who  might  be  suffering  for  the  want  of 
the  work.  It  was  for  such  reasons  that  Zuleime  found  little 
or  1*0  employment — at  most  of  the  houses  where  she  applied 
sb-3  was  told  that — "  We  never  give  out  needle-work,"  or 
thr,,t.,  "  The  ladies  of  the  house  do  all  the  family  sewing." 
All  very  well,  in  moderation.  Industry  is  a  praiseworthy 
babh,  when  it  does  not  compromise  justice  and  mercy — wnen 
it  ores  not  hinder  us  to  "  live  and  let  live."  Let  us  be 
ciii'/rent  in  our  several  callings ;  but  for  Heaven's  sake,  if 
wo  can  possibly  afford  it,  let  us  never  refuse  to  give  work  to 
thof,e  who  need,  or  who  ask  it  of  us.  They  may  be  suffering 
for  it,  they  may  be  starving  for  it,  they  may  be  dying  for  it, 
as  Zuleime  was.  They  may  be  driven  to  vice,  to  crime,  for 
the  want  of  it,  as  Zuleime  was  not,  thank  Heaven.  Jlejider, 
tkU^ortion  of  my  story  at  least  is  no  fiction.  Nor  was 
Zuleimc's  case  then  a  solitary  one.  Nor  would  it  be  such 
"low.  There  arc  many  poor  women,  in  every  city,  who  have 
no*,  work  enough  to  earn  their  necessary  food  and  fuel.  And 
j  Ilib  is  one  of  the  causes  : — There  are  hundreds  of  ladies,  of 
J  the  middle  classes  of  society,  who  work  themselves  nearly  to 
I  death,  and  really  shorten  their  lives,  by  sewing  for  their 
j  large  families,  :n  order  to  save  money  to  lay  out  in  dress  for 
themselves  and  children,  mere  genteel  than  needful;  or  ia 


THE     CATASTKOPHE.  2 

furniture,  which  they  do  not  live  very  long  to  enjoy.  And 
all  this  time  there  are  hundreds  of  poor  women  around  them 
suffering  for  a  part  of  this  very  work  with  which  they  aro 
killing  themselves.  Yes,  hundreds  who  die  annually  of  in 
nutrition — a  slow,  cruelly  slow  starvation,  prolonged  from 
month  to  month,  or  from  year  to  year,  according  to  their 
relative  strength  of  constitution.  I  know  it.  For  I  have 
lived  among  them,  and  seen  for  myself,  and  not  another.  The_ 
doctors  call  the  want,  of  which  they  die,  consumption — I 
think  it  is  rather  ftcm-consumption.  Zuleime  sank  deeper 
and  deeper  into  penury.  As  autumn  advanced  into  winter, 
and  as  her  necessities  increased,  her  ability  to  supply  them 
decreased.  Her  poverty  began  to  betray  itself  sadly  in  her 
personal  appearance.  Her  face  was  thin  and  wan,  with  great, 
bright,  hungry  looking  eyes — her  hands  wasted  to  semi- 
transparency.  Her  only  gown,  her  black  bombazine,  was 
rusty  and  threadbare,  and  embossed  with  darns — her  shoes 
were  so  bad  as  to  look  scarcely  decent.  And  amid  all  her 
other  troubles,  there  was  room  for  humiliated  feelings  upon 
even  this  account.  The  present  was  wretched — the  future 
hopeless.  She  had  heard  of  people  perishing  from  cold  and 
hunger,  and  to  such  an  end  she  thought  her  life  seemed 
tending.  Yet  miserable  as  was  the  condition  of  Zuleime, 
there  were  many  then,  are  many  now,  in  much  worse  situa 
tions.  She  at  least  was  starving  in  a  tolerably  clean  room, 
in  privacy  and  in  peace.  Far  happier  than  some  who  perish 
in  the  midst  of  vice  and  filth  and  squalor.  Yes,  reader, 
there  are  such  things ;  they  do  exist  in  my  neighborhood, 
and  yours,  and  it  is  just  as  well  that  they  should  sometimes 
be  remembered.  Zuleime  was  dying  of  want.  And  did  the 
people  of  the  house  know  nothing  of  this  ?  Yes,  they  knew 
something  of  it,  and  her  German  landlord  trembled  for  his 
rent,  his  wife  wished  that  they  had  never  seen  the  poor  thing, 
and  the  two  girls  pitied  her  very  deeply.  And  Mrs.  Knight 
saw  it  all,  and  suffered  in  sympathy,  and  gave  the  poor, 
dying  girl,  all  the  work  she  had  to  give,  and  paid  her  for 
doing  it  as  liberally  as  she  could  afford.  But  Mrs.  Knight 
Ttas  not  able,  from  her  scanty  salary,  to  keep  up  her  expen 
sive,  professional  wardrobe,  and  support  two  families  besides. 
The  greater  part  of  the  money  Zuleime  made,  by  sewing  for 
the  poor  actress,  was  paid  for  rent,  to  keep  the  roof  over  her 
head  thaV  bitter  weather,  and  ti  supply  the  daily  two-pence 
worth  of  milk  foi  the  child-  If  \  few  pence  were  left  over, 


gf3  THE      CATASTROPHE. 

they  were  spent  in  cheap  pilot  bread,  sparingly  eaten  by  her. 
self.  For  weeks  together  she  had  no  fire,  no  fuel,  but  would 
nianace  to  keep  her  child  warm  by  seating  her  in  the  middle 
of  the^bed,  well  wrapped  up.  By  the  side  of  the  head  of  the 
bedstead,  and  looking  to  the  south,  was  the  only  back  win 
dow  of  her  room.  When  she  had  work,  she  would  sit  by 
this  window  and  sew,  while  her  child  sat  wrapped  up  in  tho 
bed.  When  she  had  no  work,  she  would  still  sit  there  and 
rock  her  child  upon  her  bosom,  singing  to  her  all  the  while. 
Unearthly  and  spiritual  was  the  wan,  moonlight  face,  with 
its  large,  luminous  eyes — unearthly  and  spiritual  was  tbo 
voice  in  which  she  sang  her  child  to  rest,  as  she  sat  by  the 
south  window.  She  found  room  in  her  burdened  heart  to 
love  that  sunny  window,  with  its  glimpses  of  a  river  land 
scape,  with  waterfalls  and  hills  and  forests,  and  nearer,  lying 
between  her  and  the  water,  the  pleasure-grounds  around  a 
fair  mansion  of  white  freestone,  that  fronted  on  the  river. 
That  fine  place  took  in  nearly  a  whole  square,  and  was  sepa 
rated  from  this  poor  house  and  lot,  first,  by  a  broad,  back 
alley,  then  a  tall  brick  wall,  with  capacious  stables  and 
coach-houses,  then  the  garden,  with  terraces  and  conserva 
tory,  and  so  up  to  the  Venetian  back  piazza  of  the  mansion. 
Every  day,  and  all  day  long  through  the  glowing  autumn 
weather,  she  had  sat  and  feasted  her  eyes  and  mind  upon 
these  pleasure-grounds,  with  their  gorgeous  flowers  and  mag 
nificent  trees,  and  the  palace-home  in  the  midst,  a  picture  of 
oeauty  and  glory,  telling  besides  of  plenty,  elegance,  refine 
ment,  leisure,  artistic  taste,  intellectual  pursuits,  family 
union,  domestic  happiness.  Many  a  time,  when  going  out  to 
look  for  work,  she  had  walked  quite  around  the  square  to 
get  in  front  of  the  mansion,  and  satisfy  her  soul  with  the 
architectural  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  edifice,  as  it  stood 
elevated  by  a  flight  of  terraces  far  above  the  street,  and 
commanding  for  many  miles  the  mighty  course  of  the  river. 
Often  in  the  autumn  weather,  had  she  walked  under  this 
southern  wall,  and  even  in  the  midst  of  her  deep  distresses, 
looked  up  in  childish  longing  at  the  splendid  autumnal  flower?, 
trailing  luxuriantly  over  the  iron  railing.  WThy  did  thip 
place  interest  her  so  1  Not  because  it  was  a  palace-home,  in 
Buch  strong  contrast  to  her  own  poor  dwelling — not  because 
she  passed  it  almost  every  day — not  because  its  magnificent 
grounds  were  ever  before  her  sight  from  her  own  poor  room. 
Ah,  n~.;  But  because  there  was  a  rural  character,  and  a 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  27** 

fine,  old,  ancestral  look  about  the  place,  that  reminded  her 
of  bsr  dear,  lost  home.  Everything  connected  with  the  pre 
mises  interested  her,  even  that  capacious  family  carriage, 
with  its  round  bodied,  gray  coach  horses,  and  its  fat  coach 
man,  which  appeared  every  afternoon  at  a  certain  hour  to 
take  the  family  out  to  drive.  She  did  not  care  to  inquire 
who  lived  there.  One  day,  when  walking  in  front  of  the 
hou,«e  on  tne  other  street,  she  had  seen  a  lady  in  deep  mourn 
ing  come  out  and  get  in  the  carriage.  She  had  time  to  see 
that  the  lady  appeared  bowed  in  grief,  but  possessed  so  sweet 
and  benevolent  a  face,  that  she  was  encouraged  to  call  and 
ask  for  work.  So  the  next  day  she  entered  the  beautiful 
grounds,  and  ascended  the  stone  steps  that  led  flight  by  flight 
up  the  rising  terraces  until  she  reached  the  Grecian  portico 
and  rang  the  bell.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  man  servant, 
to  whom  she  communicated  her  business.  He  called  a  wait 
ing-woman,  who  came,  and  after  hearing  what  the  visitor 
wanted,  explained  civilly  enough  that  all  their  needle-work 
tras  done  by  a  young  person,  who  lived  companion  to  her 
mistress,  who  was  too  infirm  to  see  strangers.  Zuleime 
never  tried  there  again.  But  the  sweet,  sorrowful  face  of 
the  lady  haunted  her,  and  she  gazed  from  her  poor  window 
upon  the  magnificent  pleasure-grounds  with  more  of  interest 
than  ever. 

Truly  the  worldjs  ^fulljrf  paper  walls.".  .  How  little  Zu 
leime  surmisedthaTtliie"m6"urner  in  the  palace  sorrowed  over 
the  very  same  bereavement  that  had  laid  her  own  life  waste — 
that  the  fair-haired,  tender-eyed  lady,  whose  grief-worn  coun 
tenance  haunted  her  so,  was  the  mother  of  her  lost  Frank  ; 
that  the  proud  mansion  house,  in  the  midst  of  its  pleasure- 
grounds,  was  the  rightful  inheritance  of  the  poor  babe  that 
rested  on  her  wasted  bosom. 

How  little  did  the  childless  and  desolate  recluse  of  the 
palace  guess  that  her  lost  son's  widow  sat  pining,  starving 
BO  near  her  !  The  world  is  full  of  paper  walls,  but  fate 
makes  them  firmer,  stronger,  more  indestructible  than  ada 
mant. 

Upon  that  very  same  December  night  that  found  Mrs 
Clifton  and  Catherine  rejoicing  over  the  good  news  they  hail 
heard  from  their  friends,  upon  that  very  night  Zuleime  sat 
shivering  in  her  room,  without  fire,  food  or  light.  She  had 
given  her  child  its  cup  of  milk,  and  thanked  Heaven  that 
*he  had  it  to  give,  though  she  herself  wont  hungry.  And 


280  THE       CATASTROPHE. 

she  had  wrapped  the  babe  in  her  shawl,  and  sat  by  the  win 
dow,  sinking  and  rocking  her  to  sleep.  The  room  was  in 
tensely  cold,  she  was  chilled  to  the  heart,  her  feet  were  numb, 
and  almost  lifeless.  The  only  warmth  in  her  body  seemed 
to  be  the  bosom  at  which  the  child  was  pressed.  The  snow 
was  falling  fast  without,  but  even  through  its  flakes  she  sa^ 
the  lighted  windows  of  the  mansion-house  glowing  through 
the  crimson  curtains,  and  streaming  redly  across  the  snow- 
clad  ground.  And  she  sat  and  thought  of  the  comforts 
within  that  parlor.  While  she  sat  there  thinking,  there  came 
a  gentle  knock  at  her  door. 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  inquired  Zuleime. 

"  It  is  I,  Mrs.  Fairfax,"  replied  the  voice  of  the  actress. 

"  Come  in,  Mrs.  Knight." 

The  actress  entered,  saying,  with  a  little  pardonable  tact — 

"  Oh,  you  are  putting  your  child  to  sleep  in  the  dark.  It 
is  singular  some  little  ones  never  will  go  to  sleep  where  there 
is  a  light  burning.  Is  she  asleep  ?•" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Zuleime. 

"  Then  please  put  her  in  bed,  my  dear,  and  come  down 
stairs  with  me.  I  have  something  to  talk  to  you  about." 

Zuleime  laid  her  little  girl  in  bed,  and  tottering  with  weak 
ness,  from  her  long  fast  and  the  cold,  accompanied  the  actress 
dowrn  stairs. 

Mrs.  Knight  opened  her  own  room,  and  revealed  a  warm 
coal-fire  burning  in  the  grate,  and  a  little  supper-table  set 
out,  with  coffee,  French  rolls,  nice  butter,  and  stewed  oysters. 
She  set  the  cushioned  rocking-chair  for  Zuleime,  between 
the  fire  and  the  table,  and  pushed  her  gently  into  the  seat, 
saying— 

"  I  have  holyday  to-night,  and  for  a  week  from  to-night, 
because  the  opera  troupe  are  here.  And  so  I  thought  1 
would  just  celebrate  its  commencement  by  a  supper  and  a 
ball  for  two  !"  And  she  placed  before  her  visitor  a  plate  of 
oysters  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  When  the  little  supper  was 
fairly  commenced,  Mrs.  Knight  said,  "  I  did  not  send  for  you, 
only  to  take  coffee  with  me — I  wished  to  speak  to  you  on  a 
matter  of  business.  I  hare  been  wishing  some  time  to  do  so, 
but  scarcely  knew  how  to  do  it  without  wounding  or  offend 
ing  you."  She  paused.  • 

"  Ah  !  are  you  so  considerate  ?  Yet  you  need  not  fear-  - 
(  know  you  could  not  think  of  anything  to  say  which  would— 


/ 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  281 

**  At  least,  I  only  mean  your  good,  and  if  I  err,  you  -will 
orgive  me." 

"  Gentle  friend  !  I  am  used  to  all  the  hardness  and  vul 
garity  against  which  a  woman  has  to  break  her  heart  and 
?pirit,  in  struggling  through  the  rough  world.  Now  think 
of  that.  And  think  whether  I  can  be  hurt  by  anything  youi 
kind  heart  impels  you  to  say.  No,  I  shall  be  very  grate 
ful!" 

"  Well,  this  is  it,  then,  my  dear.     I  have  not  been  able  to 
avoid  seeing  your  fruitless  efforts  to  maintain  yourself  and 
\        child,  for  the  last  three  months.     I  fear  you  have  scarcely 
made  five  shillings  a  week." 

"  I  have  not  made  that  for  the  last  month." 

"  And  there  seems  to  be  no  chance  of  doing  better  —  with 
your  needle,  I  mean." 

"  Ah,  no,  no," 

"  And  your  situation  is  getting  worse  every  day.  Poor 
child  !  your  very  shoes  are  almost  gone  —  there  —  forgive  me  — 
I  have  spoken  rudely." 

"  No,  no  —  you  have  spoken  the  truth  in  love.  Any  truth 
can  be  told  in  the  spirit  of  love." 

"  And  you  are  wasting  away  —  you  will  be  thrown  upon 
four  sick  bed  —  then  what  will  become  of  your  child  ?" 

"  Alas,  God  knows  !     If  we  both  could  die—" 

"  Yes,  if  you  both  could.  Death  is  no  evil  at  all."  As 
4ie  actress  said  this,  her  hollow,  shadowy  face  grew  dark, 
And  her  large,  luminous  eyes  glanced  aside,  and  fell  upon  the 
door  —  fixed  in  an  intense,  suffering,  almost  querulous  gaze  — 
as  if  of  one  enduring  pain.  "  It  must  come  abruptly  at  last," 
she  said,  looking  up,  suddenly.  "  My  dear,  have  you  any 
insurmountable  prejudices  against  a  theatrical  life  for  your- 
self" 

Startled  by  the  abruptness  of  the  proposition,  Zuleime  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  beautiful,  dark,  irritated  countenance  before 
her,  without  replying. 

"  You  don't  understand  me.  Well,  then,  to  put  it  plainer, 
if  nothing  better  at  all  could  be  found  for  you,  would  you 
absolutely  refuse  to  go  upon  the  stage  ?" 

Zuleime  had  understood  her  very  well,  and  if  she  still 
hesitated,  it  was  from  a  reluctance  to  wcund  the  spirit  of  the 
actress.  / 

"  Do  you,  then,  consider  the  histrionic  profession  disreputa-  v 


282  THE      CATASTROPHE. 

We  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Knight,  with  the  same  suffering,  querulous,, 
almost  cross  expression  of  the  eyes. 

*<  No,"  said  Zuleime,  very  gently,  « I  do  not.  Not  the 
profession  that  Mrs.  Siddons  ennobled.  I  think  it  truly 

"  '  The  youngest  of  the  sister  arts, 
Where  all  their  beauties  blend.'  " 

"  Well,  then,  ray  question — Would  you  object  to  going  on 
the  stage  yourself  ?" 

"  I  am  not  fit  for  it,"  replied  Zuleime,  evasively. 

"  I  do  not  know  that.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  you  are 
young  and  pretty,  and  singularly  graceful — nor  that  you  have 
a  very  fine  voice  for  singing — these  form  a  very  good  founda 
tion.  And  in  elocution,  my  dear,  I  would  myself  become 
your  instructress.  What  say  you  ?" 

"  That  you  are  kinder  to  me  than  any  one  has  ever  been 
since  I  left  home  ;  and  that  I  am  very,  very  grateful,"  Zu 
leime  said,  very  gently. 

"  But  that  you  despise  the  calling  too  thoroughly  to  follow 
it,  even  for  bread,"  said  the  actress,  bitterly. 

"  No,  no — I  did  not  say  or  mean  that,  indeed — but  I,  you 
see,  have  neither  the  taste,  talent,  nor  courage  requisite !" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  was  brought  up  in  the  privacy  of  domestic  life  ;  in  the 
deep  seclusion  of  the  country.  I  have  never  been  used  to 
society,  much  less  to  publicity,  and  I  am  sure,  that  no  matter 
how  well  I  might  be  instructed  in  my  part,  when  I  should 
come  before  an  audience,  I  should  forget  all  about  it,  and 
half  die  of  shame." 

"  Ah,  I  suppose  you  have  no  vocation  for  it.  An  actress 
forgets  her  own  identity  in  that  of  the  character  she  repre 
sents,  and  that  enables  her  to  go  through  things  she  could 
not  otherwise  endure.  But,  my  dear,  I  do  not  see  anything 
else  you  can  do  :  and  as  for  the  <  stage  fright,'  as  it  is  calleS 
among  us,  you  would  soon  get  that  off." 

Zuleime  shook  her  head. 

"  My  dear,  you  do  not  yet  know  the  plan  I  have  for  you. 
I  ne\rer  thought — no  one  would  ever  think  of  a  sudden  grand 
debut  for  you.  Nothing  but  great  genius,  strong  vocation, 
and  perfect  self-possession'  on  the  part  of  the  debutante. 
would  justify  such  a  thing.  No— the  art  must  be  acquired, 
as  othor  arts  are— slowly.  This  is  the  plan  I  had  for  you, 
and  it  rafu^v  precludes  the  possibility  of  a  stage  fright, 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  ,  283 

since  you  are  gradually  inured  to  it.  Do  you  understand  me, 
now  V1 

"  No,  I  do  not :" 

"  Well,  then,  for  instance — and  to  come  to  the  point !  Tho 
opera  season  is  about  to  commence,  and  the  manager  wishes 
to  engage  about  half-a-dozen  young  girls  as  chorus  singers. 
Will,  you  be  one  ?  The  lowest  salary  they  ever  give  a  chorus 
singer  is  six  dollars  a  week — that  is  four  times  as  much  a? 
jou  ever  earned  by  the  tedious  needle.  Will  you  consent  ?' 

Still  Zuleime  was  silent. 

"  After  the  opera  season  is  over,  I  make  no  doubt  that 
your  youth,  beauty  and  grace,  and  your  very  fine  voice,  will 
secure  you  a  permanent  engagement  at  an  advanced  salary. 
Will  you  go  with  me  to  the  manager  to-morrow  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Zuleime,  "  I  should  not  dare  to  go  upon  the 
staple.  I  could  not  face  an  audience." 

"  And  you  need  not  face  them  !  You  would  be  in  h.  group 
of  young  girls,  and  no  one  would  notice  you,  except  casually 
as  a  part  of  the  scenery.  The  attention  of  the  audience  ia 
taken  up  with  the  principal  performers.  Besides,  no  one  will 
know  who  you  are.  Your  name  need  not  appear  upon  the 
bills.  I  will  take  every  care  of  your  feelings,  if,  indeed,  you 
can  be  sensible  of  them  when  hunger  and  cold  are  felt." 

"  I  do  not  like  the  life,"  said  Zuleime.  "  I  had  almost  ae 
willingly  starve." 

The  actress  arose  and  rung  the  bell. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  nothing  to  me,  Mrs.  Fairfax.  Do  as  you  please. 
f  have  no  earthly  interest  to  serve  in  persuading  you  to  this 
step,"  she  said,  with  the  old,  cross,  querulous  look  on  her 
haggard  face,  and  in  her  beautiful  dark,  gray  eyes. 

Bertha  came  in  and  cleared  away  the  table. 

Mrs.  Knight  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  hasty . 
irritated  manner. 

"  I  wish  I  was  at  work  again  !  I  am  sick  of  my  holyday 
already!  Since  I  cannot  afford  to  abandon  this  hateful  art, 
I  wish  I  were  always  delving  at  it,  and  there  came  no  pause 
for  self-recollection.  I  wish  I  were  perpetually  Queen 
Katherine,  Mrs.  Haller,  Isabella,  Imogene,  Lady  Macbeth, 
Bianca  Fazio,  and  the  others,  going  incessantly  through  the 
circle  like  the  earth  through  the  signs  of  the  zodiac.  I  wish 
1  were  always  somebody  else,  anybody  else  than  poor  Ida 
Knight."  And  she  threw  herself  into  a  chair,  glancing  at 
Zuleime  with  -\  strained,  appealing,  accusing  look.  But  the 


THE      CATASTROPHE. 

mm  face  of  the  dying  girl,  with  its  bectic  flush,  smcns  the 
rock  in  her  heart,  and  she  moved  te  her  Bide  and  to*«  her 
hand  and  said,  gently,  though  with  the  same  tone  and  look 
of  querulous  suffering  "  It  ?s  a  wretched  life  !  I  feel  it  so- 
only  it  is  not  so  bad  as  starving,  and  seeing  your  child  starve. 
My  dear,  it  is  something  to  me  whether  I  persuade  you  to  do 
this  thing  or  not.  I  cannot  hear  to  see  you  suffer  so.  Your 
necessities  weigh  upon  my  heart  in  addition  kuuy  own.  And 
really,"  she  added,  with  the  same  frowning,  irritated  look, 
«*  really,  I  have  such  a  burden  of  my  own,  that  I  grow  res 
tive  under  a  feather  of  anybody  else's." 

"  Then  do  not  take  my  sorrows  on  your  shoulders,  dear 
lady ;  I  can  bear  them  myself,  or  die  under  their  weight  un 
complainingly.  Do  not  take  my  troubles  to  heart!"  said 
Zuleime,  gently. 

The  actress  looked  up  with  a  sharp,  rebuking  glance,  say 
ing — 

"  As  if  I  could  help  it!  You  are  not  sincere  when  you 
ask  me  to  do  so  !  No,  the  only  way  I  can  get  your  griefs  off 
my  heart  is  to  get  them  off  your  own.  I  must  get  you  into 
( living  circumstances.  I  must  persuade  you  to  go  on  the  stage 
with  "me.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  profession  for  a  lady,  I  grant 
you — neither  is  freezing  or  starving,  atd  getting  into  debt 
and  being  dunned  and  rebuffed,  pleasant — but — "  she  added, 
i  with  a  look  of  almost  fierce  scff-assertion  and  self-defence — 
\  "  ncHlier  is  it  actually  sinful,  that  I  know  of.  It  necessarilj 
transgresses  no  command  of  God  with  which  I  am  acquainted. 
One  need  not  be  a  heathen  because  she  is  an  actress.  Mrs. 
Siddons  was  a  member  in  full  communion  with  the  Church 
of  England.  The  stage  has  its  dangers,  I  grant  you,  but  you 
may  safely  pass  through  them,  if  you  please.  I  have  done  so ' 
I  was  not  born  or  brought  up  to  that  life,  my  dear ;  I  was  the 
daughter  of  an  English  country  curate — then  a  nursery  go- 
vorness — then  a  traveling  companion  to  an  earl's  daughter 
—  then  I  accidentally  met  with  my  husband,  and  we  married 
from  mutual  affection.  He  was  a  tragedian — that  is  the  way 
in  which  I  bocame  an  actress.  Now  I  follow  the  histrionic 
profession  as  the  only  means  of  living  left  open  to  me.  I 
have  seen  the  dangers — nay,  I  have  felt  them.  But  nightly 
— no  matter  how  utterly  wearied  out  with  toil  I  may  have 
been,  I  have  uttered  two  lines  of  sincere  prayer,  that  God 
would  keep  me  from  falling  into  deeper  sin.  And  He  has 
kept  -Tie'  Does  that  surprise  you?  (rod  is  the  God  of  the 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  285 

as  well  as  of  the  Pharisee.  Who  dares  excommunl- 
fate  me  ?  What  child  of  the  Universal  Father  shall  dare  to 
say  that  another  is  excluded  from  His  love  and  care  and  pro 
tection  ?  Verily,  the  day  of  Judgment  will  be  a  day  of 
startling  revelations.  And  many  that  are  first  shall  be  last, 
and  the  last  shall  be  first."  And  then  the  actress  fell  into 
oilence,  and  her  fine  countenance  lost  that  look  of  captious 
self-defence,  and  settled  into  meditative  earnestness. 

'Zuleime  arose  to  go.  Mrs.  Knight  took  her  hand,  and 
said,  gently — 

*•  My  dear,  think  over  what  I  have  proposed  to  you.  If 
you  decide  to  accept  my  proposition,  I  will  take  every  pos 
sible  care  of  you.  You  shall  be  as  my  own  daughter.  I 
will  shield  you  from  all  dangers.  I  will  instruct  you 
in  your  art.  And  I  will  give  you  the  freedom  of  my  ward 
robe.  Good-night.  Will  you  kiss  me  1" 

And  she  drew  Zuleime  to  her  bosom.  The  poor  girl 
pressed  her  lips  to  those  of  the  actress,  and  slipping  through 
the  door,  passed  up  in  the  dark  and  cold  to  her  own 
room. 

Ida  went  to  bed,  but  the  poor,  generous,  irritable  woman 
could  not  sleep  for  sympathy,  for  anxiety,  and  for  the  sound 
*f  Zuleime's  racking  cough.  "  She  will  never  be  able  to 
sing  much,  I  am  really  afraid.  But  she  shall  be  paid  well 
for  dressing,  and  for  making  her  beautiful  face  and  form  a 
part  of  the  pageantry — that  I  am  determined  upon,  if  I  have 
any  influence  with  the  management,"  thought  Ida,  as  she 
sank  to  sleep. 

Rusty  and  threadbare  clothing,  broken  shoes,  cold,  Iran 
ger,   and    a   suffering   child,    are   forcible    arguments,   and 
they   seconded   the   persuasions   of    Ida   with   tremendous 
power. 

Zuleime  yielded,  and  was  camed_down _the_  current  of  futo 
as  easily,  with  as  little  resistance  as  the  sapling  beaten  down     / 
by  the  rain,  uprooted  by  the  wind,  and  carried  off  by  the  v 
flood,  is  whirled  down  the  stream. 

It  was  the  fatal  night  of  the  2<ath_.pf  December,  1811, 
the  night  of  the  burning  of  the  Richmond  Theatre,  a  night  j 
ever  to  be  remembered  in  the  annals  of  that  city,  and  ever 
to  be  mourned  in  the  hearts  of  her  citizens.     That  evening  ; 
more  than  six  hundred  lovers  of  pleasure  were  gayly  pre-  I 
paring  for  the  theatre ;  not  dreaming,  alas '   that  they  also  j 
ren»  doomed  *o  take  fearful  part  in  an  awful  tragedy— a  » 
18 


286  THE      CATASTROPHE. 

tragedy  unprecedented  ..in  the-history  of  the  stage.  IWoie 
eight  o'clock,  more  than  six  hundred  persons,  from  pleasant 
nity  homes  all  around,  assembled  in  the  fated  building  ;  be 
fore  twelve  o'clock,  more  than  one  hundred  had  perished 
horribly  in  the  flames !  and  the  scarcely  surviving  five  hun 
dred,  many  wounded,  maimed,  or  burned,  all  despairingly 
mourning  the  awful  fate  of  nearest  relatives  and  friends,  re 
turned  or  were  borne  back  to  their  desolate  homes ! 

That  afternoon,  unprophetic  of  doom  as  any  of  the  others, 
Zuleime  and  her  friend  were  preparing  to  go  on  the  stage. 
Zuleime  had  no  part  to  perform — she  was  as  yet  only  an 
attache — and  was  to  appear  but  in  one  scene,  as  one  of  a  group 
of  villagers.  She  was  engaged  in  fixing  up  a  peasant  dress, 
consisting  of  a  straw  hat,  black  spencer,  short  gray  skirt, 
and  striped  stockings.  Mrs.  Knight  was,  as  usual,  doing  two 
things  at  once — arranging  her  costume  and  studying  her  part. 
But  the  eyes  of  Ida  often  wandered  towards  Zuleime,  as  she 
heard  that  hacking,  racking  cough,  and  she  noticed  ,vith  pain 
the  waning  face.  Yes !  within  a  few  days  even,  the  thin 
face  had  become  perceptibly  thinner,  and  the  flushed  cheek 
burned  with  a  darker  crimson.  u  And  she  will  make  a  sorry 
looking  peasant,"  thought  Ida ;  "  a  very  sorry  peasant,  with 
that  delicate,  spiritual,  almost  aerial  face  and  form  of  hers. 
How  absurdly  inappropriate  are  most  of  the  affairs  we  get 
up !  Truly,  our  art  is  in  the  rear  of  all  others.  Now,  this 
evening,  all  go  on  as  villagers— vulgar  and  refined — all 
reduced  to  one  level.  Those  coarse,  brawny  Miss  -Butchers, 
and  this  fragile,  delicate  Zuleime,  all  peasants — very  well 
for  the  Miss  Butchers,  but  for  Zuleime !  To-morrow  evening 
all  go  on  as  faries ;  excellent  well  for  this  aerial  Zuleime,  but 
for  the  Miss  Butchers!  Well,  our  notions  are  fanciful  as 
arbitrary — and  there  may  be  peasants  who  have  delicate, 
white,  semi-transparent  fingers,  and  there  may  be  faries  with 
large,  flat  feet,  and  great  red  hands,  for  aught  we  know." 
While  Mrs.  Knight  silently  cogitated,  and  covered  her  white 
satin  shoes  anew,  and  studied  her  part,  Zuleime  worked  on 
also  in  silence,  but  too  despairing,  too  exhausted,  even 
to  think  of  the  wayward  fate  which  had  brought  her  to  this 
pass. 

At  about  sunset  their  .preparations  were  completed.  Ida, 
as  usual,  rang  for  her  cup  of  coffee  and  her  errand  boy,  and 
racked  up  and  sent  away  the  costume  for  the  evening.  Then 
«he  put  her  own  little  girl  and  Zuleime's  child  to  sleep  to- 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  267 

getlier  in  her  bed,  and  got  Bertha  to  promise  to  look  in,  in 
the  course  of  the  evening,  and  see  that  all  was  safe.  And 
then  poor  Ida  carefully  wrapped  Zuleime  up  in  her  own  man 
tilla,  and  wound  her  own  furs  around  her  neck,  saying,  iu 
answer  to  all  expostulation — 

"  Never  mind  me,  my  dear !  I've  got  no  cough.  Hag 
gard  as  I  look,  I'm  whit-leather !  You  must  take  care  of 
your  poor  little  self." 

And  then  they  left  the  house,  walking  briskly  through 
the  biting  air,  and  crunching  the  crusted  snow  under  their 
quick  footsteps.  Though  but  little  after  sunset,  owing  to 
the  heavy  clouds,  it  was  almost  dark  when  they  hurried 
along  the  streets.  There  was  the  usual  number  of  foot-pas 
sengers  abroad,  and  once,  as  the  slight  figure  of  a  man  in  a 
military  cloak  swiftly  hurried  past,  Mrs.  Knight  felt  her  arm 
suddenly  grasped  with  spasmodic  force  by  her  companion, 
and  turning  around,  she  saw  the  face  of  Zuleime  deadly 
pale. 

"  Why,  what  is  the  matter,  my  dear  child  ?" 

"  Nothing,  nothing  !"  said  Zuleime  ;  "  let  us  hurry  on." 

"  But  you  are  trembling  like  an  aspen  leaf !  You  have 
walked  too  far — you  are  not  strong  enough  for  tins  evening's 
work  ;  let  me  take  you  home  again." 

"  No,  no,  no,  no  !  let's  go  on  !" 

«  Why,  Zuleime—"  -^ 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing — nothing  when  you  hear  it !     I — I  felt  j 
the  presence  of  one  long  dead  !    It  was  weak  nerves,  or  fancy, 
or  perhaps  the  p7*escience  of  one  on  the  confines  of  the  unseen  I 
world.     Let  us  hasten  on." 

They  hurried  along.    In  the  meantime,  he  who  had  passed  / 
them,  the  slight  man  in  the  military  cloak,  walked  on  down/ 
the  square,  suddenly  stopped,  muttered  to  himself,  "  Absurd  !) 
impossible!"  then  went  on  again,  again  stopped,  as  by  an/ 
irresistible  impulse,  turned  and  rapidly  retraced  his  steps* 
after  the  two  ladies  in  black,  overtook  them,  was  close  be 
hind  them,  but  not  placing  any  confidence  in  what  he  termed 
his  own  wild  thoughts,  he  dared  not  accost  or  peep  under  tho 
bonnets  of  two  reserved  and  closely  veiled  women.     But  he 
kept  them  in  sight  until  he  saw  them  enter  the  side  door  of 
the  theatre.     Then  he  asked  a  door-keeper — 

«  Who  are  those  *" 

"Twc  of  the  ladies  attached  to  the  theatre,"  replied  the 
mar 


£88  THE      CATASTROPHE. 

"  FOCL  that  I  was !"  exclaimed  Frank  Fairfax,  as  he 
turned  away. 

Captain  Fairfax  had  reached  Richmond  that  day  at  rioon- 
too  late,  by  half  a  day,  for  the  stage  to  L —  — ,  whither  ho 
would  have  gone,  if  possible,  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  His 
mother,  warned  by  the  newspapers,  had  been  daily  expecting 
his  arrival,  and  was  prepared  to  receive  him  when  he  pre 
sented  himself.  He  had  spent  the  whole  afternoon  with  her 
at  Fairview  House,  and  in  the  evening  had  walked  out  to 

book  his  place  in  the  next  day's  stage  for  L .     It  was 

when  hurrying  along  on  that  errand,  that  he  passed  so  near 
his  wife,  electrifying  her  with  his  unknown  presence,  and 
being  himself  drawn  to  follow,  and  to  hover  near  her  all  the 
evening.  For  when  he  had  turned  from  the  theatre,  and 
hurried  on  and  reached  the  stage  office  and  secured  his  place, 
finding  out  that  the  coach  did  not  start  till  three  o'clock  the 
next  morning,  he  said  to  himself — 

"  How  on  earth  shall  I  contrive  to  forget  some  of  these 
miserable  hours  that  must  intervene  before  I  can  fly  to  my 
wife  ?  My  mother's  ill-health  obliges  her  to  retire  early  to 
bed.  If  I  go  back  to  Fairview  House,  I  shall  have  the  whole 
mansion  to  myself.  I  will  even  go  to  the  theatre,  and  see 
if  I  can  find  out  among  the  women  there  the  particular 
one  whose  air  and  gait  reminded  me  so  strongly  of  my  Zu- 
leime." 

And  so  to  the  theatre  he  went.  It  was  quite  early,  and 
he  was  fortunate  in  securing  a  seat  in  the  centre  of  the  first 
row  of  boxes,  immediately  in  front  of  the  stage.  In  the  mean 
time,  Zuleime  had  been  conducted  by  Mrs.  Knight  into  the 
theatre,  and  introduced  into  the  common  dressing-room  of 
the  stock  actresses.  This  was  a  large  room,  with  a  broad 
shelf  or  dresser  running  around  three  sides  of  the  walls,  and 
about  four  feet  from  the  floor.  This  served  as  bureaus, 
dressing-tables,  and  wash-stands  for  nine  women,  each  of  the 
three  sides  being  occupied  by  three,  who  equally  divided  the 
shelf,  each  one  having  her  hand-boxes  under  the  shelf,  and 
her  looking-glass  on  top  of  it,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
and  her  wash-basin,  jars  of  rouge,  boxes  of  powder,  pots  of 
pomatum,  etc.,  standing  around  it.  On  introducing  h-2l 
companion  into  this  apartment,  Mrs.  Knight  said — 

"  All  women  belonging  to  the  theatre  use  this  as  a  com 
mon  dressing-room,  except  the  ballet  girls,  who  have  one  w 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  28?) 

tlemselves,  and  the  stars,  who  have  separate  and  well  fur 
nished  rooms." 

About  half  a  dozen  women  were  present  now,  each  before 
her  own  glass,  with  her  own  tallow  candle,  making  her 
toilet. 

"  Who's  that,  Knight,  that  you've  got  there  ?"  asked  * 
coarse-featured,  black-eyed  girl,  who  always  played  tho 
hoyden,  or  the  wit,  and  fondly  believed  herself  a  proficient 
in  the  Rosalind  and  Beatrice  line.  "  I  say,  Knight !  is  that 
the  young  *  lady  V  "  she  repeated,  turning  around  with  a 
little  wad  of  raw  cotton,  dipped  in  carmine,  between  her 
finger  and  thumb,  and  exhibiting  a  face  in  process  of  being 
rejuvenated — namely,  with  one  young  and  blooming  cheek, 
and  one  prematurely  old  and  sallow. 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  young  lady,  Barry,"  said  Mrs.  Knight, 
very  gravely,  as  she  led  her  prote*ge  off  to  hex  :>wn  corner  of 
the  common  dresse-r. 

"I  think  she  might  have  sent  her  down  with  the  ballet 
girls,  as  she  is  really  one  of  them,"  grumbled  a  large,  im 
portant  looking  female,  arranging  a  huge  turban  and  curls 
upon  her  head,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.     Two  new^\ 
ideas  besides  that  of  the  common  dressing-room  and  the  dress-  > 
ing  shelf  in  general,  Zuleimehad  got — namely,  first,  that  there, 
really  was  some  very  lofty  notions  of  rank  and  exclusivenes?! 
even  among  the  members  of  the  stock  company  of  a  second 
rate  theatre — secondly,  that  they  really,  after  all,  did  not 
differ  much  in  that  or  any  other  respect  from  people  she  had 
met  in  very  high   society,  except,  indeed,  that  they  had  the 
odious  habit  of  calling  each  other  "  Knight"  or  "  Barry,"  i 
as  men  do,  without  a  prefix  of  any  sort. 

Mrs.  Knight  dressed  herself  for  her  part,  as  she  was  to 
appear  in  the  early  scene  in  the  play,  and  then  gave  the  use 
of  her  toilet  nook  to  Zuleime.  But  the  cold  walk  througti 
the  evening  air,  and  the  standing  in  the  chilly  dressing-room, 
had  so  increased  her  cough,  that  Mrs.  Knight  went  out  and 
sent  a  call-boy  for  opium,  and  administered  a  dose.  It  was 

der  the  influence  of  that  stupefier  that  Zuleime,  leaning 
on  ttu  arm  of  Mrs.  Knight,  entered  that  terra-incognita,  the 
green-room.  It  was  a  long  room,  papered,  curtained,  car 
peted,  furnished  with  sofas  and  easy-chairs,  and  warmed  by 
u  fine  coal  fire — upon  the  whole  it  differed  in  no  other  re 
spect  than  its  motley  crowd,  from  a  large  family  parlor. 
Mra.  Knight  conducted  her  to  a  corner  of  the  sofa  nearcflt 


290  THE      CATASTROPHE. 

the  fire,  and  leaving  her  sitting  there,  obeyed  the  call-boy's 

summons,  and  went  upon  the  stage.    Composed  into  a  dreamy 

,     state  by  the   opium,  Zuleime  sat  there  while  the  strange 

]    scene,  with  its  fantastical  crowd,  passed  before  her  like  the 

phantasmagoria  of  a  midnight  dream.     And   all  this  time 

Frank  sat  in  the  centre  box  of  the  front  row,  not  seeing  the 

i    play  enacting  before  him — not  thinking  of  it,  only  seeing  the 

\   turnpike  road  to  L Only  thinking  of  the  dearest 

girl  in  the  world,  whom  he  should  meet  at  the  end  of  his 
\  journey/    Eaper  walls  againi 

Zuleime  remaineorTnnEhe^corner  of  the  sofa  near  the  fire 
in  the  green-room,  not  thinking  at  all,  not  even  dreaming, 
only  conscious  in  a  vague  dreamy  way,  that  a  strange  vision, 
changing  and  changing  like  figures  in  the  kaleidoscope,  was 
passing  before  her.  She  was  scarcely  aroused  by  Mrs. 
Knight's  gentle  voice,  saying  in  her  ear — 

"  Come,  my  dear,  it  is  time  for  you  to  go  on  now.  Come, 
don't  be  afraid  Bless  you,  you  are  nobody,  you  know.  No 
one  will  look  at  you.  You  will  be  only  one  of  a  group  that 
forms  a  sort  of  back-ground  to  the  scene.  Come,  I  will  go 
with  you  to  the  side  entrance,  where  the  others  stand." 

Zuleime  obeyed  mechanically,  and  was  led,  between  vari 
ous  walls  of  canvas,  to  a  side  entrance,  at  which  were 
grouped  a  number  of  persons  in  villagers'  costume. 

"  There,  just  go  on  with  the  crowd,  and  stand  there ,  that 
is  all  you  have  to  do,"  whispered  Mrs.  Knight,  as  she  left 
her. 

And  at  the  same  moment  the  group  moved  on,  carrying 
the  somnolent  Zuleime  with  them,  and  she  found  herself  in  a 
dazzling  glare  of  light,  and  heard  the  deafening  rant  of  a 
stentorian  lunged  actor  near  her,  and  grew  painfully  con 
scious  of  the  many  hundred  eyes  upon  the  scene,  upon  her 
self,  perhaps — and  dared  not  raise  her  eyes  an  instant  from 
.  the  floor,  upon  which,  with  a  deeply  burning  cheek,  they 
w<^ro  fixed.  But  suddenly  aiuattraction — a  fatality — I  know 
not  what — -but  something  stronger  than  her  fear,  strong! 
than  her  will,  drew  her  glance  up  to  the  centre  box  of  tho 
^  front  row,  and  her  eyes  met  Frank's  eyes.  Yes,  there  he 
eat,  gazing  at  her,  "astonished,  fixed,  spell-bound  as  by  a 
night-marc,  without  the  power  of  moving  or  waking.  She ' 
she  too,^  gazed  for  a  moment.  She  was  not  astonished  at 
g  him  there,  any  more  than  she  would  have  been  astou- 
at  fEtvagt/ng  of  seeing  him  anywhere.  It  was  all  liki 


THE     CATASTROPHE.  201 

fc  wild  dream,  everything !  It  seemed  not  unnatural  that  he 
should  form  a  part  of  it.  Only  to  her  weakened  and  half- 
stupefied  brain,  the  last,  nearest  event  was  the  most  distinct 
—and  so,  strangely,  she  did  not  think  of  his  death  or  life, 
but  only  of  the  reproach  she  had  brought  upon  him,  her 
prond  Frank,  in  appearing  there !  and  covering  her  face  with 
both  hands,  she  sank  to  her  knees  upon  the  floor. 

It  was  lucky  the  drop-curtain  fell  just  then.  It  was  lucky 
the  audience  took  that  by-scene  for  a  part  of  the  play.  But 
to  Zuleime  it  was  still  like  a  fever-dream,  from  which  she 
tried  to  wake.  Like  a  dream  the  drop-curtain  had  rolled 
down.  But  not  like  a  dream  was  the  rough  seizure  of  her 
arm  by  a  girl  who  set  her  upon  her  feet,  and  said,  in  a  not 
unfriendly  tone — 

"  What  did  you  do  that  for  ?  That  warn't  a  part  of  your 
part." 

"  I — I — have,"  began  Zuleirne,  passing  her  hand  back  and 
forth  across  her  forehead,  "  I  have  been  taking  opium  to  stop 
my  cougb .  I — never  was  used  to  it,  and  I  think  it  has  be 
wildered  me  a  little  ;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"  I  think  something  has  !  Wake  up,  and  try  to  listen  to 

what  i?  tfoing  on.  Mr. is  going  to  sing  now.  Come 

off." 

As  tlv  ffirl  led  her  away  between  the  walls  of  canvas, 
one  of  thr^e  insignificant  incidents  occurred,  upon  which 
nevertheless  tne  fate  of  hundreds^  sometimes  hang.  Away 
among  the  bacK  "scenes  CEfbugh"which  they  passed  to  reach 
the  green-room,  there  was  a  chandelier  hanging  flaring  in  the 
draught.  A  boy  secerned  busy  with  it.  , 

"  Hoist  it  up  higher,  sir,  why  don't  you  ?"  exclaimed  one 
of  the  players,  who  happened  to  come  up. 

"  If  I  do.  ii  will  set  fire  to  the  scenes,"  replied  the  boy. 

"  Confound  your  insolence,  do  you  think  I  would  give  you 
the  order,  if  th^re  were  the  least  danger !  Do  as  you  are 
directed,  *ir.r' 

The  boy  obeyed  ;  and  the  scenery  instantly  took  fire.  The 
chandelier  was  hastily  drawn  down  ;  the  alarm  was  given  in 
•jLe  rear  of  *he  stage,  and  a  scene  shifter  directed  to  cut  the 
cords  by  wb'oh  the  combustible  material  was  suspended.  But 
the  man  b?e,ame  panic-struck  and  fled. 

The  performers  and  their  assistants  in  vain  sought  to  to«A 
down  tho  s<^nerv.  The  canvas  was  covered  with  a  resinou* 
,  ar-i  the  draught  of  wind  was  strong  ;  and  Zu 


292  THE      CATASTROPHE. 

icime  and  her  companion  were  swiftly  encircled  by  walls  of 
blazing  canvas.  The  strong  girl,  terror-stricksn,  left  lie* 
weak  companion  and  fled.  And  the  poor  invalid,  forgotten 
bv  all  in  the  terror  and  confusion,  sank  down  overpowered, 
suffocated  by  the  heat  and  smoke.  All  this  had  happened 
in  less  than  three  minutes  from  the  raising  of  the  chandelier 
And  at  this  time  one  of  the  performers  was  playing  neat 
the  orchestra,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  stage,  with  its  ap 
palling  danger,  was  fatally  concealed  from  the  audience  by 
the  curtain.  The  flames  spread  with  the  rapidity  of  light 
ning  ;  and  the  first  notice  the  audience  had  of  their  danger, 
was  the  fire  falling  from  the  ceiling  upon  the  head  of  the 
performer  Even  then  many  supposed  it  to  be  a  part  of  the 
play,  and  were  for  a  short  time  restrained  from  flight  by  a 
cry  from  the  stage  that  there  was  no  danger.  But  soon  the 
fire  flashed  in  every  part  of  the  house  with  a  rapidity  hor 
rible  and  appalling.  Then  terror  seized  upon  the  hearts  of 
all,  and  the  audience  broke  up  in  confusion.  Those  in  the 
pit  escaped  by  the  pit  entrance,  and  were  every  one  saved. 
Those  in  the  boxes,  who,  had  they  known  it,  might  at  first 
have  escaped  by  way  of  the  pit,  all  turned  and  hurried  to 
wards  the  only  door  of  egress  into  the  lobby.  This  door 
was  unfortunately  hung  to  open  on  the  inside.  And  this 
circumstance  was  fatally  overlooked  by  the  frenzied  crowd, 
who  pressed  and  pressed  against  the  door,  trying  to  push  it 
open,  but  really  keeping  it  fast  closed.  The  fire  advanced 
upon  them,  filling  the  house  with  suffocating  smoke,  and  with 
flame  that  seized  the  clothing  of  those  behind,  goading  then? 
horribly  to  still  more  frantic  pressure  upon  those  before 
The  most  frightful  uproar  ensued  :  women  shrieking,  pray 
ing — men  groaning,  expostulating ;  all  crowding  one  upOL 
another,  or  rather  hundreds  upon  hundreds,  and  all  pressing 
Cowards  the  door  that  would  not  yield.  The  pit  was  now  * 
lake  of  fire,  darting  out  huge  tongues  of  flame  that  wounu 
themselves  around  the  forms  of  the  hindmost,  who  fel: 
shriveled  into  the  blaze.  Then  arose  cries  of  horror,  an 
guish  and  despair — children  crying  for  lost  parents,  and  pa 
rents  calling  in  agony  upon  the  names  of  missing  children— 
for  in  the  fierce  pushing  and  struggling  for  life,  parties  go* 
separated  and  families  divided — children  forced  from  the 
parents,  women  from  their  protectors,  and  the  weaker  un 
consciously  thrown  down  and  trampled  to  death  by  the  strong. 
Many,  half  roasted,  dropped  into  the  burning  pit ;  maaj 


THE     CATASTROPHE 

with  their  garments  in  flames,  maddened  by  pain  and  terror, 
threw  themselves  headlong  from  the  windows,  and  met  an 
other  death.  Many  even  chanced  to  save  their  lives  in  that 
way  at  the  cost  of  broken  limbs.  And  at  last  the  doof 
yielded  ;  and  as  many  as  possible  escaped  that  way  ;  but  to 
what  a  life,  alas  !  darkened  forever  by  the  memory  of  dearest 
relatives  and  friends  who  perished  in  the  fire.  The  whole 
building  was  now  in  flames.  In  less  than  an  hour  all  waa 
over.  Naught  remained  but  a  heap  of  smoking  ruins  ;  and 
around  them  the  agonized  crowd  of  those  who  lived  and 
raved — and  around  these  again,  an  awe-.*' nick,  raouroicp 
afey. 


204  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS, 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


She  sleeps  :  her  breathings  are  not  heard 

In  palace  chambers  far  apart, 
The  fragrant  tresses  are  not  stirred 

That  lie  upon  her  charmed  heart. 
She  sleeps  :  on  either  side  upswells 

The  downy  pillow  lightly  prest ; 
She  sleeps,  nor  dreams,  but  only  dwells 

A  perfect  form  in  perfect  rest. — TENNTSOJI 

THE  spell  that  bound  Captain  Fairfax,  when  he  recognized 
his  wife  upon  the  stage,  was  broken  by  the  fall  of  the  drop 
curtain.  He  instantly  left  the  boxes  and  hastened  around 
behind  tho  scenes.  After  many  baffled  inquiries,  and  many 
misdirections,  he  prosecuted  his  search  alone,  and  at  length 
found  her  prostrate  form.  The  wind  had  blown  the  smoke 
and  flame  in  another  direction,  and  she  lay  there  uninjured, 
though  insensible,  and  in  extremity  of  danger.  He  raised 
her,  threw  his  cloak  around  her,  ran  with  her  into  the  fresh 
air,  called  a  hackney  coach,  placed  her  in  it,  jumped  in  and 
took  his  seat  by  her  side,  drew  her  insensible  form  within  his 
arms,  upon  his  bosom,  and  directed  the  coachman  to  drive 
rapidly  to  Fairview  House.  As  they  passed  swiftly  through 
cha  streets,  the  cry  of  "  Fire  !  fire !  fire  !"  rung  through  the 
air,  but  he  scarcely  heard  it.  The  rushing  of  crowds  of 
people  in  the  opposite  direction  to  that  in  which  they  were 
driving,  frequently  impeded  the  progress  of  the  carriage,  but 
he  scarcely  knew  it.  All  his  senses,  all  his  thoughts,  all  his 
emotions  were  absorbed  in  the  gentle  form  that  lay  swooning 
on  his  bosom.  And  "  Oh  !  how  thin  she  is !  how  thin,  good 
Heaven  !"  he  groaned  many  times,  as  he  held  his  arm  around 
the  fragile  waist,  or  felt  the  emaciated  arm  and  hand,  or 
pressed  his  cheek  against  the  wan  face.  "  How  thin  she  is, 
good  Heaven,  how  thin !  Is  this  illness  ?  Illness  unto  death, 
perhaps !  Drive  fast,  coachman  !  Fast!"  He  longed  to  lay 
her  at  rest  upon  her  bed,  that  he  might  perchance  silence  his 
anxiety  And-  «  Faster,  coachman'  Faster I"  he  continued 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS.''  295 

to  cry,  whenever  the  thickening  crowd  arrested  the  pi  ogress 
of  the  carriage. 

At  length  they  reached  Fairview  House.  He  lifted  her 
out  and  bore  her  into  the  hall.  His  mother  had  retired  to 
rest  long  since  ;  but  he  rang  the  bell  violently,  and  said,  to 
the  astonished  servants,  who  came  at  the  summons — 

"  Go  instantly  and  prepare  a  room  for  my  wife.  1  Imo 
but  just  saved  hev  from  the  burning  theatre  !"  The  wonder- 
struck  maids  hurried  to  obey.  "  Stop  !  Don't  disturb  your 
Distress,  on  your  lives,"  he  said,  and  with  this  warning,  dis 
missed  them.  To  one  of  the  men  present,  he  exclaimed, 
•4  Run  instantly  to  Doctor  Cummings,  and  ask  him  to  hurry 
hither." 

The  man  disappeared  to  obey.  And  during  the  issuing  of 
these  orders,  Frank  Fairfax  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  sustain 
ing  the  fainting  form  of  his  wife  with  one  arm,  while  with 
the  other  hand  he  unlaced  the  velvet  bodice.  Presently  one 
of  the  maids  returned  and  announced  that  the  room  was 
ready.  And  Frank  raised  and  carried  his  precious  burden 
up  stairs,  into  a  pleasant  front  chamber,  and  laid  her  on  a 
bed.  Then,  with  the  assistance  of  one  of  the  women,  he  got 
off  the  stage  dress,  and  supplied  its  place  with  one  of  his 
mother's  white  wrappers,  brought  for  the  purpose  by  one  of 
the  maids. 

He  had  scarcely  done  this,  when  the  chamber  door  opened, 
and  old  Mrs.  Fairfax  entered,  roused  up  by  the  noise  in  and 
outside  the  house.  She  came  in,  wrapped  in  a  flannel  dress 
ing-gown,  and  saying,  anxiously — 

"  My  dear  Frank !  they  tell  me  that  the  Richmond  The 
atre  is  on  fire.  I  am  so  grateful  that  you  are  not  there.  Ah 
what  is  this  ?  Who  is  that  ?"  she  asked,  perceiving  the  form 
of  Zuleime  upon  the  bed,  and  advancing  towards  it.  "  Some 
sufferer  you  have  saved  from  the  fire,  my  dear  Frank  ?  God 
bless  your  brave,  kind  heart,  my  dear  boy.  But  you  -should 
not  have  brought  her  in  here — or  you  should  not  be  here 
yourself.  Retire,  and  leave  the  lady  to  the  care  of  myself 
and  my  women,"  concluded  the  lady,  gravely. 

"  My  dearest  mother,  yes !  She  is  a  sufferer  I  have  saved  from 
the  fire !  a  most  beloved  sufferer !  my  wife !  my  wife !  Dear 
est  mother,  I  cannot  leave  her  !  I  have  a  right  to  stay  here." 

Here  followed  a  wild,  hasty  disclosure  of  his  imprudent 
Ferriage,  kept  secret  ur  to  that  moment.  And  then  ainu) 
\\i*  grief  and  surmise  of  Mrs.  Fairfax,  he  also  learned  tht 


296  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS." 

fact  of  Mr.  Clifton's  death,  and  of  Zuleime's  disappearance 
and  suspected  suicide.  In  bitter  self-reproach,  Frank  had 
made  his  confession — in  deepest  sorrow,  he  heard  his  mother's 
revelations. 

"  How  much  she  must  have  suffered  !  Good  Heaven  i  how 
much  she  must  have  suffered !  he  exclaimed.  Then  almost 
madly  he  cried,  "  Mother !  look  at  her  !  Look  at  her  !  Oh, 
tell  me,  do  you  think  she  can  live  ?" 

Mrs.  Fairfax  had  been  all  this  time  chafing  her  temples 
with  cologne,  while  the  two  maids  rubbed  her  hands  and  feet. 
But  up  to  this  instant  she  had  given  no  signs  of  recovery, 
or  of  consciousness.  And  the  old  lady  shook  her  head 
mournfully,  and  plunged  Frank  into  deeper  despair.  They 
persevered  in  their  efforts  for  half  an  hour  longer,  and  then 
she  sighed  and  opened  her  eyes.  Her  husband  was  bending 
over  her.  She  met  his  eyes,  and  smiled  faintly  in  recogni 
tion,  without  astonishment,  and  without  joy — indeed  she  was 
too  feeble  for  either — and  murmuring,  "  Dearest  Frank," 
she  sank  away  again,  fainting,  they  supposed,  until  her  low 
breathing  revealed  that  she  slept  the  sleep  of  utter  prostra 
tion.  And  how  changed  was  now  that  countenance.  The 
look  of  weariness,  care  and  sorrow  had  vanished,  and  the 
sweet,  wan  face  wore  the  easy,  confiding  air  of  infancy  ;  and 
even  in- sleep,  she  must  have  felt  the  shelter  of  protecting  love 
around  her,  for  often  with  closed  eyes  she  smiled,  as  in  de 
lighted  visions  !  All  night  they  watched  beside  her  bed  while 
she  slept.  In  the  morning  the  doctor  arrived.  He  had  been 
absent  all  night,  by  the  couch  of  one  who  had  been  severely 
burned  at  the  theatre,  and  that  accounted  for  his  failure  to 
come  before  morning  ;  now,  however,  he  stood  beside  the 
patient  with  grave  and  thoughtful  brow. 

"  Doctor,  for  Heaven's  sake  give  me  some  hope  of  her 
Tell  me  something  about  her,  at  least !     Is  she  ill  ?" 

"  She  is  very  ill,"  replied  the  physician. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it !  I  will  not  believe  it !  See  how 
sweetly  she  sleeps  !  how  comfortably  !  how  free  from  suffer 
ing  !» 

"  Yes — but,  my  dear  Captain  Fairfax,  there  would  be  more 
hope  if  there  were  more  suffering — however,  the  case  may  be 
much  more  favorable  than  "it  appears  to  nie  now ;  I  cannot 
fully  judge  of  it  until  she  wakes." 

"  Allow  me  to  arouse  her,  then  !     Nay,  I  wish  to  do  it 
1  Uavo  not  spoker  to  her  yet !     Let  me  wake  her  now  "' 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS."  297 

«  By  no  means  !  It  might  prove  fatal.  Indeed,  you  must 
be  very  careful.  Her  life  hangs  by  a  thread.  Sleep  will  do 
her  more  good  now  than  anything  else.  When  she  awake* 
naturally,  you  may  send  for  me  at  once."  And  so  saying, 
the  doctor  took  leave,  without  even  writing  a  prescription. 

Soon  after  he  left  the  house  she  opened  her  eyes  again, 
and  seeing  Frank,  smiled  faintly,  and  murmured — 

"  My  own — my  dearest — dearest  husband."  And  in  an 
instant  her  senses  seemed  swallowed  up  again  in  sleep,  which 
lasted  half  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which  she  awoke  again,  and 
looked  around  in  uneasiness,  and  breathed,  half  aloud, — 
"  My  child — my  baby — my  little  Fan — "  and  then  sank  away 
again,  as  if  she  were  too  feeble  to  retain  her  hold  on  con 
sciousness. 

"  What  is  she  talking  about,  dear  mother  ?"  inquired 
Frank,  in  the  extremity  of  anxiety,  when  he  heard  her  word's. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  shook  her  head,  and  said  she  did  not  knov7. 
But  the  woman  who  waited  in  the  chamber  came  forward, 
and  said  that  if  her  mistress  would  excuse  her  interfering, 
she  *yould  tell  them  what  the  young  lady  meant. 

"  Speak  on,  then,  at  once,  in  the  name  of  the  Lord !''  ex 
claimed  Frank,  impatiently. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  endorsed  his  order.  And  then  the  woman 
informed  her  mistress  that  she  had  known  the  sick  young  lady 
all  the  winter  by  sight — that  she  had  been  there  at  the  house 
to  ask  for  sewing — that  she  took  in  sewing  for  a  living — that 
she  lodged  at  the  cabinet-maker's,  over  the  way — and  that 
she  had  a  little  girl  almost  two  years  old,  who  was  no  doubt 
at  the  cabinet-maker's  now,  which  she  supposed  was  what  had 
made  the  mother  look  around,  and  inquire  so  anxiously. 

The  woman's  story  was  scarcely  over  before  Captain  Fair 
fax  seized  his  hat,  and  hurried  from  the  room.  As  soon  as 
he  was  gone,  Mrs.  Fairfax  called  the  woman  up  before  her, 
and  said — 

"  Nelly,  you  heard  your  master  tell  me  of  his  marriage 
with  this  young  lady  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam." 

"  I  need  net  tell  you  that  it  is  my  will  that  there  be  no 
kitchen  gossip  about  this  matter.  This  young  lady — once 
Miss  Zulcimc  Clifton,  is  now,  and  has  been  for  nearly  three 
years  past,  Mrs.  Francis  Fairfax,  the  wife  of  my  son,  and  is 
also  your  own  young  mistress.  You  understand  ?" 

«  Yes,  madam." 


298  "IN     PALACE 

"  Then  let  there  be  no  idle  conversation  about  this  mar 
riage,  if  you  would  avoid  my  severest  displeasure." 

Farther  colloquy  was  arrested  by  the  hurried  entrance  of 
f-iptain  Fairfax,  bringing  his  little  wee  girl  in  his  arms.  Mrs 
Fairfax  immediately  arose  to  take  her  from  him,  but  tb* 
child's  quick  eyes  had  recognized  her  mother  lying  on  the 
oed,  and  she  began  to  clap  her  hands  and  call — 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !" 

Frank  held  her  closely,  and  tried  to  still  her  joyful,  eager 
cries,  but  the  magical  sound  of  her  child's  voice  had  already 
awakened  the  sleeper,  and  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  seeing 
the  babe  in  its  father's  arms,  smiled  a  feeble  smile  of  content, 
and  fell  away  again  into  oblivion. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  had  the  doctor  summoned  again,  and  told  him 
that  if  he  wished  to  see  her  daughter-in-law  awake,  he  must 
remain  at  her  bedside,  for  that  she  only  awoke  to  relapse 
instantly  into  slumber. 

The  physician  then  took  his  seat  by  the  bedside  of  his 
patient,  and  requested  all  except  a  maid-servant  to  leave  the 
chamber. 

Mrs.  Fairfax  and  Frank  want  out,  taking  the  little  girl  with 
them,  and  leaving  the  doctor  with  the  invalid. 

After  the  lapse  of  an  hour,  the  physician  came  out  and 
went  down  stairs.  Captain  Fairfax  was  waiting  for  him  in 
the  hall,  and  drew  him  into  the  parlor,  anxiously  requesting 
to  know  his  opinion.  Perhaps  he  was  really  sanguine,  and 
hoped  the  doctor's  verdict  might  set  his  fears  at  rest.  At 
any  rate  he  insisted  upon  knowing  the  precise  state  of  the 
case.  The  doctor  gravely  motioned  him  to  sit  down,  and  then 
took  a  seat  himself.  He  said  that  his  patient  was  not  sinking 
so  much  under  any  local  disease  as  under  a  general  atrophy, 
for  which,  considering  the  circumstances,  he  could  not  possibly 
account — -/or,  if  he  had  met  precisely  such  a  case  in  the  very 
lowest  walks  of  life,  he  should  at  once  have  declared  that  tho 
patient  had  been  brought  to  this  state  by  the  want  if  proper 
and  sufficient  food — that,  in  short,  she  wras  dying  of  a  slow 
starvation.  A  deep  groan  broke  from  the  lips  of  Francis 
Fairfax,  and  he  started  up,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
and  walked  the  floor  in  rapid  strides.  Suddenly  he  stopped 
before  the  physician,  with -a  countenance  convulsed  with  grief 
arid  remorse,  with  all  pride  and  hesitation  gone,  and  exclaim 
ed,  in  thrilling  tones — 

"  lector !  suppose  her  case — my  wife's  case  had  been  as 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS."  200 

you  would  have  surmised,  finding  it  any  where  olset — sup. 
pose  that  for  months  past  she  has  been  starving. — Great  God  ' 
— staroinsr ! — Now  that  the  cause  of  this  utter  failure  of  the 
vital  powers  is  removed — now  that  she  has  every  tiring  that 
wealth,  that  the  most  devoted  affection  can  give  her,  may  she 
Dot  recruit  and  live1*  Oh  !  tell  me  ?" 

The  physician  answered  sternly-  • 

"  I  do  not  know,  sir  !  This  tampering  with  the  laws  off 
life — this  pursuing  it  to  the  very  edge  of  death  is  not  safe.  \ 
Is  she  inclined  to  take  food  at  all  ?" 

"No — only  a  little  gruel,  and  that  mechanically,  without 
appetite." 

"  Exactly — a  few  days  fasting  makes  one  ravenous,  but  a 
long,  partial  starvation  so  exhausts  the  victim,  that  he  loses 
all  inclination  for  food,  as  well  as  all  power  to  assimilate  it." 
The  doctor  spoke  severely. 

"  Sir  !  I  forgive  your  sternness  and  your  evident  suspi 
cions,  perhaps  they  are  partially  just.  If  they  were  other 
wise,  G-od  knows  I  am  so  stricken  that  I  have  scarcely  man 
hood  enough  left  to  resent  them — but  oh  !  tell  me — do  not 
evade  the  question.  Can  she  be  restored  ?  and  how  ?" 

"  Captain  Fairfax,  I  told  you  that  she  was  sinking,  not  so 
much  under  any  local  disorder  as  under  general  atrophy — ; 
and  yet  she  has  a  local  disease  superinduced  by  this  same 
slow  starvation.     Upon  examination  by  the  stethoscope,  L      / 
find  tubercles  forming  upon  the  left  lung.     There  is  alsoj  V 
uiorbid  action  of  the  heart.    You  know  how  it  is  with  phthisis !( 
With  proper  care,  and  under  favorable  circumstances,  the 
patient  may  live  for  years,  perhaps  for  many  years,  and  die 
at  length  in  old  age  of  something  else." 

"  Oh,  no  care,  no  pains — nothing  that  money — nothing 
that  love  can  do,  shall  be  wanting !  There  is  hope  ?" 

"  I  dare  not  say  there  is  much  hope  in  this  instance.  Thin 
atrophy  is  a  very  unfavorable  thing — all  our  hope  is  in  being 
able  to  save  the  digestive  functions.  I  have  left  a  prescrip 
tion,  with  written  directions,  above  stairs."  The  doctor 
look  his  hat,  and  saying  that  he  would  see  the  invalid  a^ain 
in  the  afternoon,  departed. 

"  All  alike !   all  alike !      They  sway  from  right  to  left, 
raising  one's  hopes,  and  then  rousing  their  fears  !     He  lies  ' 
he  lies !     It  is  not  so !  she  is  in  no  danger !     Great  God 
she  must  not  die!  she  shall  not !"     So  unjustly,  wildly,  sin 
fully  Frank  Fairfax  talked,  walking   distractedly  up   and 


I 


^00  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS." 

down  the  floor,  convulsed  by  grief,  remorse  and  fear  fo 
her  he  loved  so  strongly,  and  felt  he  had  wronged  so  greatly 
He  dared  not  seek  her  bedside  now  in  his  excited  state — he 
lushed  into  his  library,  locked  the  door,  and  gave  hir\self  u^ 
to  all  the  power  of  remorse. 

In  the  afternoon  he  sought  the  sick  room  again.  And  the 
deep,  sweet  peace  that  pervaded  the  apartment  fell  like  a 
soothing  spoil  upon  his  excited  nerves.  The  front  windows 
were  open,  for  the  day  was  very  fine,  and  the  fresh  air  and  the 
sunshine  came  in  together,  with  the  cheerful  view  of  the 
expanse  of  water,  and  the  wooded  hills  across  James  River. 
The  coolness  of  the  air  was  sufficiently  tempered  by  a  glow 
ing  coal  fire  in  the  grate.  Zuleime  lay  raised  up  with  pillows 
on  the  bed,  and  upon  the  counterpane  by  her  sat  her  little 
girl.  The  face  of  the  youthful  mother  seemed  as  soft,  as 
feeble,  and  as  free  of  care  and  sorrow  as  that  of  the  infant 
herself.  On  seeing  Frank  enter,  she  smiled  a  gentle,  pleased, 
childish  smile,  and  feebly  moved  her  hand  towards  him.  He 
went  to  her,  at  first  successfully  repressing  all  his  strong 
emotions,  and  kissed  her  very  gently,  but  then  sank  upon 
his  knees,  and  dropping  his  face  upon  her  hand,  burst  into 
tears,  and  wept  passionately.  Her  other  hand  wandered 
playfully  through  his  curls,  and  she  said,  gently — 

"  Don't  weep,  Frank,  please  don't — indeed  I  am  happy- 
it  is  so  nice  to  be  here — don't  weep. 

But  when  men  weep  and  sob,  it  is  no  passing  shower,  like 
;hc  easily  shed  tears  of  women,  but  a  great  gust,  shaking  all 
;hc  nature.     So  it  was  a  long  time  before  Frank  mastered 
emotion.     When  he  recovered  his  composure,  and  arose 
and  sat  by  her  side  and  looked  at  her,  he  found  that  the 
icctic  fever  burned  crimson  on  her  cheeks,  and  that  her 
Brilliant  eyes  wandered  about  deliriously.     And  he  knew 
that  he  had  harmed  her  again.     And  soon  she  began  to  talk 
fit  random,  babbling  childishly,   delightfully,  about  White 
Cliffs,  and  the  forest  walks,  and  the  garden.     And  she  ad- 
jdressed  her  father  and  sister,  as  if  they  were  present.     And 
;very  lovingly  she  spoke  to  Catherine  ;  or,  coming  nearer  to 
{ *he^  present  moment,  talked  with  Ida  about  her  feminine 
i  shrinking  from  appearing  upon  the  stage.     Frank  listened  in 
'the  deepest  trouble,  and.  in  the  wandering  of  her  mind  he 
learned  much  that  had  transpired  at  White  Cliffs,  a  great  deal 
that  had  occurred  since  her  flight  thence,  and  all  that  ht 
ought  to  have  known. 


"IN      PALACE     CHAMBERS."  801 

When  the  physician  arrived  in  the  evening,  he  instituted 
Btrict  inquiries,  and  discovered  the  cause  of  her  high  fever. 
Then  he  rebuked  the  indiscretion  of  her  friends,  and  leaving 
fresh  prescriptions,  with  peremptory  orders  that  the  deepest 
quiet  should  be  preserved,  departed.  Her  fever  unabated 
raged  all  night.  In  the  morning  it  went  off. 

Captain  Fairfax  would  not  permit  himself  to  enter  her 
room  again  until  he  had  obtained  the  power  of  perfect  self- 
control.  At  about  eleven  o'clock  he  went  in.  The  crimson 
curtains  of  the  windows  were  drawn  aside,  and  the  room  was 
light  and  cheerful.  The  white  muslin  drapery  of  the  bedstead 
was  festooned,  and  revealed  the  fair  invalid  reclining  there, 
wan,  placid,  child-like  as  ever.  She  welcomed  her  husband 
with  the  same  soft,  faint  smile.  And  he  went  and  sat  by  her 
side,  and  crushing  down  all  strong  emotions,  took  her  hand, 
and  spoke  to  her  calmly  and  pleasantly,  inquiring  how  she 
felt. 

"  So  well — it  is  so  nice  to  be  here,"  she  answered  simply. 
And  she  lay  there  looking  at  him  contentedly,  smiling  softly, 
answering  vaguely  when  he  spoke  to  her  ;  but  never  asking 
any  question  ;  or  making  any  comment ;  or  volunteering  any 
speech  whatever.  This  pained  him  more  than  all — for  he 
knew  that  mind  as  well  as  body  was  sinking— lapsing  away 
into  assort  of  dreamy,  happy  fatuity.  And  all  attempts  to 
rouse  her  from  that  state  only  threw  her  into  fever,  and 
often  into  delirium. 

One  day,  with  a  view  to  interest  without  exiting  her,  he 
inquired — 

"  Dearest,  is  there  any  one  you  would  like  to  see  ?" 

«  Yes— Ida,"  she  said. 

"  And  who  is  Ida,  love  ?"  asked  Frank,  very  cautiously 
and  gently,  for  he  felt  as  if  he  were  running  the  risk  of 
hurting  her  again. 

•c  Ida  !  La  !  don't  you  know  ?  She  was  so  good  to  me," 
§he  replied,  with  a  pitying  smile. 

Captain  Fairfax  left  the  room,  and  at  a  venture  went  over 
to  inquire  at  the  cabinet-maker's.  And  he  soon  returned, 
accompanied  by  Mrs.  Knight.  Zuleime  received  her  visiti  r 
without  any  emotion  whatever  ;  smiling  gently,  and  holding 
out  her  hand,  and  afterwards  lying  and  silently  and  pleasantly 
vatching  her  as  she  sat  by  the  bed.  And  when  she  arose  to 
take,  kave,  she  put  up  her  lips  for  a  kiss.  Poor  Ida  pres.sed 
19 


302  UIN      PALACE      CHAMBERS." 

those  lips  very  gently,  and  then  quietly  left  the  room :  but 
as. soon  as  she  had  passed  the  door,  burst  into  tean,. 

Every  day  Zuleirae's  mind  flowed  away.  Every  day  sho 
became  more  infantile  in  weakness  and  simplicity.  One  day 
she  made  known  a  wish — the  only  one  she  had  ever  volun 
tarily  expressed.  It  was  affecting  from  its  utter  childishness. 

"  Dear  Frank,  you  and  your  mother  are  rich.  I  want 
yon  to  bring  Ida  and  her  child  home  to  live  here,  so  that  she 
may  not  have  to  go  on  the  stage  any  more."  She  reverted 
to  this  subject  so  frequently,  repeating  this,  the  only  wish 
she  had  ever  expressed,  so  often  and  earnestly,  that  her  hus 
band  felt  strongly  inclined  to  gratify  her  desire,  strange  as 
it  really  was.  He  consulted  his  mother,  and  they  concluded 
that  it  might  be  done,  in  a  measure.  Then  they  told  her 
that  it  should  be  as  she  wished  :  that  Ida  and  her  child  should 
come  and  live  with  them,  if  she  would.  Captain  Fairfax 
went  again  to  the  cabinet-maker's,  saw  the  poor  actress,  and 
told  her  that  his  wife  needed  a  female  companion  to  sit  with 
her  a  portion  of  the  day,  and  that  she  would  hear  of  no  one 
for  the  post  but  her  old  friend,  Mrs.  Knight,  if  Mrs.  Knight 
would  come  and  name  her  own  salary.  And  when  he  had 
let  slip  that  last  word,  he  turned  away  his  face  with  his  fere- 
head  burning  under  the  astonished,  indignant  gaze  of  those 
proud,  dark  eyes  of  Ida's,  as  she  said — 

"  Captain  Fairfax,  I  receive  a  '  salary'  in  the  regular  line 
of  my  profession,  when  I  am  engaged  in  it;  as  Captain 
Fairfax  also  receives  pay  for  his  military  services — but  as  he 
would  spurn  all  offers  of  pecuniary  remuneration  f  jr  atten 
tions  to  a  wounded  comrade,  so  should  I  decline  all  compen 
sation  for  attentions  to  a  sick  neighbor  :  and  I  am  most 
surprised  that  you  should  have  made  such  a  proposal  to  me." 
p-So  was  Captain  Fairfax  himself  really  surprised  that  he 
/should  have  been  betrayed  into  such  an  error,  as  to  forget 
/that  the  very  profession  of  the  poor  tragic  actress  really  fos 
tered  a  morbid  pride.  Her  phrases  might  have  been  a  little 
i  stilted  after  the  manner  of  the  stage,  but  the  sentiments  were 
; really  true  and  high,  and  worthy  of~all  consideration.  So  Cap- 
Itain  Fairfax  apologized,  as  he  best  could,  arid  arose  to  take 
his  leave.  Then  she  said — 

"  Do  not  quite  misunderstand  me.  I  am  very  anxious  to 
do  all  in  my  power  to  serve  Mrs.  Fairfax,  for  I  love  her 
dearly !  I  am  willing  to  devote  all  ray  time,  night  and  day, 
to  her  serv'ce,  for  the  affection  I  bear  her.  And  I  can  do  it 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS."  803 

bow ;  for  since  the  burning  of  the  theatre  I  have  been  dis 
engaged." 

Captain  Fairfax  replied  by  expressing  his  grateful  ac 
knowledgments  of  her  kindness,  and  begging  her  to  come 
over  frequently  to  see  his  wife.  Then  he  took  leave  indeed 
and  returned  home,  with  the  determination  to  ask  his  mother 
to  go  and  invite  Mrs.  Knight  to  come  and  spend  a  few  weeks 
with  her  friend  at  Fairview  House.  Old  Mrs.  Fairfax  had\ 
quite  a  struggle  with  her  Virginian  pride  and  prejudices,  be 
fore  she  could  make  up  her  mind  to  ask  an  actress  to  become 
her  guest,  but  benevolence  conquered,  and  as  whatever  she 
once  resolved  upon  doing  she  did  graciously  and  gracefully, 
she  called  upon  Mrs.  Knight,  and  gave  her  the  invitation  i^ 
a  manner  that  insured  its  acceptance.  Ida,  with  her  little 
girl,  came  over  the  next  day.  And  the  old  lady  felt  fully 
rewarded  for  her  self-conquest,  when  she  saw  the  smile  of 
childish  delight  with  which  the  gentle  patient  greeted  her 
poor  friend. 

"  See,  Ida,  murmured  Znleime,  as  her  visitor  seated  her 
self  at  the  bedside,  "  see,  Ida,  we  are  both  now  in  the  nice 
house  we  used  to  look  at  so  longingly  from  our  poor,  back 
windows."  She  paused  from  weakness,  and  then  said,  "I 
used  to  call  it  my  Heaven,  you  know !  Ah,  I  did  not  know 
it  was  really  my  Heaven.  I  did  not  know  Frank  had  ever 
lived  here — how  strange  !"  She  paused  again,  but  this  time 
from  thought,  as  well  as  from  exhaustion,  and  then  she  took 
breath  and  said  again,  "  I  never  could  make  it  out  clearly 
and  it  makes  my  head  ache  to  try.  But  see,  dear  Ida.  Look 
at  the  crimson  window-curtains — don't  you  know  they  are 
the  very  same  crimson  curtains  that  used  to  throw  the  M7arm, 
red  glow  across  the  snow,  when  we  used  to  sit  at  the  back  j 
window  and  watch  them,  and  almost  envy  the  people  that' 
lived  here  ?» 

"  Yes,  I  know,  but  do  not  talk  too  much,  darling." 

"  I  won't — but  it  is  so  strange.  There,  look  through  the 
windows,  you  can  see  our  little,  narrow,  pinched,  back  win- 
dDws,  with  their  check  curtains,  as  plainly  from  here,  as  we 
used  to  see  these  from  there.  We  did  not  think  we  should 
ever  get  here  to  live,  did  we? — how  strange !" 

Her  talk,  rambling  as  it  was,  revealed  one  hopeful  fact- 
that  her  mind  was  at  length  waking  up.     Frank  saw  it  with 
joy.     D\y  by  day,  from  this  time,  her  intellect  seemed  to 


304  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS." 

clear  and  strengthen.     Frank  spoke  of  this  to  the  doctor, 
who  heard  him  with  great  gravity,  and  without  comment. 

As  winter  advanced  towards  spring,  her  mind  "  brightened 
more  and  more  towards  the  perfect  day."  She  had  gleaned, 
partly  from  scraps  of  speech  carelessly  dropped,  and  partly 
by  inquiry,  the  history  of  Frank's  captivity  among  the  Shos- 
honowas,  that  first  originated  the  report  of  his  death — and 
she  was  very  gradually  brought  to  understand  the  true  posi 
tion  of  affairs — so  gradually  through  so  many  weeks,  that 
the  knowledge  may  be  said  rather  to  have  slowly  grown  upon 
her.  But  as  her  mind  cleared  and  strengthened,  her  heart 
became  saddened  and  depressed.  She  understood  too  much 
now  for  her  happiness.  She  no  longer  lay  and  watched  her 
husband  with  a  delighted  smile  as  he  sat  beside  her  bed — 
no,  but  rather  with  a  look  of  earnest,  mournful  love.  Well 
she  might.  Frank  was  sad  enough — he  thought  his  heart 
was  breaking. 

One  day,  while  lying  propped  up  by  pillows,  she  heard  the 
<ame  of  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  mentioned. 

"  Is  she  in  the  city  ?"  inquired  she. 

"  Yes,  love,"  replied  her  husband. 

"Send  for  her  to  -come  and  see  me — I  must  see  her." 

Captain  Fairfax  arose  and  left  the  room  immediately,  and 
mstead  of  sending  a  servant,  went  himself  to  bring  Mrs. 
Georgia.  For  so  great  was  his  desire  to  gratify  promptly 
every  wish  of  his  loved  one's  heart,  that  he  seldom  trusted 
the  execution  of  them  to  any  but  himself,  lest  they  should 
fail  or  be  delayed.  It  was  well  in  this  instance,  at  least, 
that  he  went  in  person.  A  servant  could  not  have  effected 
the  purpose.  The  conscience-stricken  Georgia  would  not 
have  ventured  to  come.  Even  when  unannounced;  by  rea 
son  of  his  haste,  Captain  Fairfax  entered  her  parlor,  the 
beauty  turned  deadly  pale,  under  the  fear  of  detected  guilt. 
But  when  she  saw  his  calm,  kind  manner,  and  heard  him  en 
treat,  as  a  favor,  that  she  W7ould  put  on  her  bonnet  imme 
diately,  and  return  with  him  to  see  his  wife,  who  wa? 
extremely  ill  at  Fairview,  the  sorceress  was  re-assured,  and 
with  her  usual  bewitching  grace  consented  to  accompany 
him. 

When  they  arrived  at  Fairview  House,  and  were  shown 
up  into  the  sick  chamber,  the  patient  smiled  and  held  out  her 
bands.  Georgia  hastened  towards  her,  and  seized  both  hands 
Covering  them  with  kisses,  and  making  a  show  of  great  emo 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS."  305 

tiun.  Zuloime  raised  her  feeble  voice,  and  begged  all  to  go 
out  of  the  room,  and  leave  her  alone  with  her  visitor.  And 
when  every  one  had  departed,  and  the  door  was  closed,  she 
said — 

"  Sit  down,  please,  here  by  my  bedside."  Mrs.  Georgia  I 
took  -the  nurse's  arm-chair.  "  Dear  Georgia,"  she  said., 
gently  taking  both  her  hands,  and  looking  kindly  in  her  fuco, 
"  I  sent  for  you,  because  I  thought  you  must  be  so  unhappy 
about  what  you  have  unintentionally  caused  me  to  suffer. 
And  I  wished  to  tell  you  not  to  remember  it  in  bitterness 
any  more.  Oh!  I  grieve  so  much  at  the  memory  of  what  I 
have  made  my  dear  father  suffer,  that  I  can  feel  for  others 
who  are  tortured  by  remorse,  and  I  would  not,  for  the  whole 
world,  that  any  one  should  mourn  for  what  they  have  caused 
me  to  suffer.  So,  dear  Georgia,  I  acquit  yon  of  all  blame, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  indeed  I  do — and  I  pray  that 
God  may  make  you  happier  than  /  have  ever  been.  And  I 
will  never,  never  drop  a  hint,  by  which  any  one  shall  sus 
pect — I  mean  I  will  never  let  fall  a  word  to  any  one,  that 
shall  injure  you,  Georgia.  I  would  not  die  and  bequeath 
you  so  bitter  a  legacy  as  an  enemy.  Though  I  knew  you 
would  not  come  and  ask  me,  I  sent  for  you  to  assure  you  of 
this,  Georgia,  and  to  reconcile  myself  with  you,  that  we  might 
be  friends  before  I  die.  And  now,  God  bless  you  !  Kiss  me, 
and  say  good-bye,  for  my  fever  is  rising." 

And  she  held  up  her  lips.     Georgia  was  weeping. 

"  Zuleime,  my  dear  child,  why  don't  you  call  me  mamma, 
as  heretofore  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  don't  you  know  long  ago  you  told  me  not  to  do  it. 
Bat  I  will,  if  you  wish  it,  now.  Kiss  me,  dear  mamma. 
There,  now,  go  and  be  at  peace." 

Georgia  hurried  from  the  room.     They  never  met  again. 

Zuleime  revived  slightly  when  the  spring  opened.  She 
had  heard  that  her  sister  Carolyn  had  nearly  recovered  her 
health,  and  was  just  about  to  set  out  on  her  voyage  home. 
And  two  secret  wishes  the  poor  girl  indulged  :  once  more  to 
visit  White  Cliffs,  and  to  live  to  see  her  only  sister  again. 
But  she  kept  them  to  herself  in  the  fear  of  giving  Frank 
trouble,  for  she  knew  that  he  would  try  to  move  Heaven  and 
earth  to  please  her,  and  deeply  grieve  if  he  should  fail.  She 
concealed  her  wants,  but  they  were  discovered  by  him  who 
watched  day  and  night  to  anticipate  her  wishes.  And  Cap- 
Fairfax  called  upon  the  family  physician,  and  consulted 


-{06  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS.7* 

him  upon  the  possibility  of  taking  Zuleime  to  White  Cliffs, 
as  soon  as  the  spring  weather  should  be  permanently  settled. 
The  physician's  opinion  was  highly  favorable  to  his  wishes. 
He  said  that  she  might  be  removed  by  easy  stages  to  tho 
country,  and  that  if  proper  care  and  attention  were  bestowed, 
the  journey  and  the  change  of  air  would  probably  be  found 
very  beneficial  to  her  health.  Captain  Fairfax  hastened 
homo  to  cheer  his  wife  with  the  news.  And  she  was  glad 
dened  by  it.  She  caught  both  his  hands  and  kissed  them, 
arid  held  them  to  her  face,  and  looking  at  him  fondly,  said — 

"  Dear  Frank  !  dearest  Frank  !  you  try  to  perform  mira 
cles  for  me!" 

The  same  night,  Captain  Fairfax  wrote  to  Mrs.  Clifton,  of 
Hardbargain,  to  go  over  to  White  Cliffs  and  prepare  to  re 
ceive  the  invalid.  And  from  that  day  Zuleime  revived,  and 
by  the  first  of  June  was  so  much  better,  as  to  be  able  to  be 
placed  in  the  comfortable  family  carriage,  in  which,  some 
times  reclining  upon  downy  cushions,  sometimes  resting  upon 
the  bosom  of  her  husband,  and  supported  by  his  arms,  she 
traveled  by  easy  stages  to  White  Cliffs.  They  readied  the 
end  of  their  journey  upon  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day. 
Mrs.  Clifton  and  Catherine  were  there  to  receive  them.  Zu 
leime  was  lifted  out  of  the  carriage,  very  much  exhausted. 
Yet,  as  she  was  gently  carried  through  the  yard,  her  eyes 
roved  gladly  over  all  the  dear  familiar  scene — over  moun 
tains,  fields  and  forests,  clothed  now  in  the  luxuriant  foliage 
of  June — and  all  her  countenance  lighted  up  with  joy,  and 
she  exclaimed  many  times  in  tones  of  profound  gratitude — 

«  Thank  God  !  oh,  thank  God!" 

She  was  carried  up  stairs,  and  put  to  bed  at  once.  And 
Catherine  was  stationed  to  watch  her  slumbers,  while  Mrs. 
Clifton  remained  below  to  attend  to  the  comfort  of  the  tired 
travelers.  But  Zuleime  frequently  awoke  with  a  joyful  start 
and  recollection  ;  and  once  she  put  her  hand  in  that  of  Kate, 
and  said — 

*  Dear  Kate !  blessed  Kate !  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
again  !  And  so  very  glad  to  be  home  again  !  Sweet  Sister 
of  Mercy !  will  you  stay  and  nurse  me  also  ?  I  think  you 
could  almost  cure  me !  Sweet,  unprofessed  nun,  will  you 
stay  and  nurse  me,  ^06  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  Zuleime,  I  will  stay  as  long  as  you  want  me. 
But  shut  those  tired  eyes,  love,  and  go  to  sleep." 

**  Yes,  seal  each  eyelid  down  with  a  kiss,  dear  Kate,  and 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS."  307 

they  will  stay  closed.  And  hold  my  hand  as  I  go  to 
sleep — I  feel  so  safe  when  some  one  I  love  holds  my  hand 
while  I  slumber.  I  feel  as  if  they  could  keep  me  in  life  while 
I  slept,  for  you  must  know,  dear  Kate,  that  my  heart  has  a 
morbid  action,  and  some  of  these  days  I  shall  fall  asleep 
Ughtly  as  now,  but  never  awake  again." 

"  Dear  Zuleime,  you  must  not  indulge  such  fancies." 

"  They  are  not  fancies,  they  are  realities.  I  do  net  de* 
ceive  myself  and  trifle  with  you,  Kate.  Do  not  you  deceive 
me  or  trifle  with  me,  either.  There  are  secrets  of  life  an£ 
death  known  only  to  the  dying.  Such  a  secret  is  mine.  I 
know  that  I  shall  lightly  drop  asleep  some  day,  and  never 
wake  again — that  is  the  reason  I  wish  some  one  I  love  to  kiss 
my  eyelids  down,  and  to  hold  my  hand  while  I  slumber." 
The  words,  the  manner  of  the  dying  girl  carried  deep  con-'; 
viction  to  the  heart  of  Catherine,  and — 

"  Oh !  Zuleime,"  she  said,  "  lean  upon  the  failing  arm 
of  flesh  if  you  will,  but,  oh,  seek !  seek  the  support  of 
that  Almighty  arm  that  can  sustain  you  in  life  and  in  death ! 
Seek  thatV' 

"  I  will — I  wish  to  do  it,  or  rather  you,  the  handmaid  of 
the  Lord,  shall  bear  me  up  in  your  faithful  hands,  and  lay 
me  within  that  Arm  of  Strength.  I  wished  this  long  ago, 
but,  oh,  my  dear  husband  and  his  good  mother !  they  thought 
only  of  restoring  me  to  health,  and  I  could  think  of  nothing 
but  of  trying  to  live  for  them,  until  very  lately,  when  it  was 
revealed  to  me  that  I  should  surely  die.  I  have  never  yet 
told  Frank  anything  about  this.  I  feared  it  would  distress 
him  too  much ;  but  the  lone  knowledge  troubled  me.  I 
needed  to  tell  some  one  of  it,  some  dear  one  with  whom  I 
could  converse  confidentially,  and  who  should  be  wise  enough 
to  counsel  me,  patient  enough  to  bear  with  me,  courageous 
enough  to  face  the  result,  and  who,  beside?,  would  not  be  too 
greatly  distressed,  as  my  hear  husband  would.  And  so. 
sweet  Kate,  I  have  told  you.  Will  you  now  stay  with  me 
and  nurse  me  V 

"  Yes,  dear  Zuleime,  as  long  as  you  wish  me  to  d'o  so ;  but 
now,  darling,  if  I  am  to  be  your  nurse,  you  must  mind  what 
I  have  to  say  to  you,  and  go  to  sleep."  Catherine  bent  over 
tier,  and  kissed  her  eyelids  down  upon  the  weary  eyes,  and 
field  her  hand  until  she  fell  asleep.  At  night,  Captain  Fair 
fax  relieved  her  watch. 

The  next  morning  when  Catherine  entered  the  room  she 


308  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS." 

sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  told  her  that  she  bid 
good  news  to  tell,  that  they  had  received  a  letter  from  Major 
Clifton,  that  Carolyn's  health  was  improving,  and  that  they 
had  emba/ked,  or  had  purposed  to  embark  upon  the  first  of 
May,  and  expected  to  reach  home  as  soon  as  tho  middle  of 
June.  Zulcimc  clasped  her  hands  in  fervent  thanksgiving 
while  she  listened,  and  when  her  friend  ceased  to  ppeak,  she 
exclaimed — 

"  In  two  weeks  she  will  be  here — oh !  that  I  may  live  to 
see  it!" 

Kate  bade  her  be  of  good  cheer  and  hope ;  and  when 
Catherine  told  any  one  to  hope,  her  words  and  looks  and 
manner  all  inspired  the  feeling.  Zuleime  was  so  recovered 
and  enlivened  as  to  be  able  to  be  lifted  from  her  bed  and 
placed  in  the  easy-chair  by  the  open  window,  that  looked  out 
upon  the  mountain  scenery,  all  glorious  in  the  light  of  sum 
mer  morning.  Old  Mrs.  Fairfax,  and  Mrs.  Clifton  of  Hard- 
b:,rgain,  came  in  to  pay  her  a  visit,  bringing  her  little  girl 
with  them.  As  for  Captain  Fairfax,  he  seldom  left  her  side. 
All  congratulated  the  invalid  upon  her  improved  health  and 
spirits,  and  hoped  and  foretold  great  results  from  her  resi 
dence  in  the  country,  and  projected  many  pleasant  drives, 
when  she  should  be  a  little  rested  from  the  fatigue  of  her 
journey.  Then  they  talked  of  Major  Clifton  and  Carolyn's 
expected  arrival,  and  laid  out  extensive  plans  of  amusement 
to  be  put  in  execution  when  they  should  come,  by  which  time 
Zuleime  also  would  be  considerably  restored.  Thus  cheer 
fully,  hopefully  they  talked.  And  the  dying  one  listened 
sweetly  ;  but  when  she  found  herself  alone  again  with  Kate, 
she  said — 

"  I  let  them  talk,  Catherine,  for  if  they  really  have  any 
hopes  of  my  recovery,  I  do  not  wish  to  destroy  those  hopes 
by  telling  what  I  know,  and  if  they  only  talk  so  to  cheer  me, 
why  even  then  I  do  not  like  to  make  them  sad  by  not  seem 
ing  to  believe  them.  And  yet,  and  yet,  perhaps  I  ought  to 
tell  Frank  ;  perhaps  I  will !" 

^--Catherine  devoted  herself  to  the  service  of  the  invalid, 
aboring  zealously  for  her  spiritual  as  for  her  bodily  good. 
Indeed,  the  girl  glided  into  the  performance  of  such  duties  as 
naturally  as  if  she  felt  herself  especially  called  to  the  work, 
oorn  for  the  work.  The  selfish  wish  for  her  own  comfort  and 
pleasure  had  never  been  V3ry  strong  in  the  heart  of  Cathe- 
:ine ;  and  wHhin  the  last  two  years  it  seerned  to  have  ex- 

I 


"IN     PALACE     CHAMBERS. "  80D 

pirod.  |She  lived  only  for  the  good  of  othersTlShe  had  grown 
to  believe  tliat  there  was  no  individual  happiness  fur  herself, 
except  in  the  service  of  others.  Young  hope  had  died  out  in 
her  heart,  she  was  resigned.  She  adopted  the  submissive 
words  of  Mary  and  her  Son,  and  said,  within  her  heart,  in 
deepest  sincerity-  — 

"  Behold,  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord."  "  Not  my  will,  but 
Thine,  oh  God." 

Zulcime  was  lifted  from  the  bed  to  the  easy-chair  every 
morning,  and  calmly  and  profoundly  the  invalid  enjoyed  those 
glorious  summer  mornings.  But  she  was  failing  very  fast. 
She  grew  very  anxious  for  the  coming  of  her  sister  ;  but,  un 
willing  to  disturb  any  one  by  her  anxiety,  she  confided  it- 
only  to  Kate.  They  had  not  heard  from  Major  Clifton  since 
the  letter  announcing  his  expected  embarkation.  They  justly 
supposed  him  to  be  on  his  voyage  home,  accompanied  by 
Carolyn,  and  were  now  daily  looking  for  a  letter  announcing 
their  landing,  and  their  speedy  arrival  home.  The  middle  of 
June  passed,  and  no  letter  had  come.  The  first  of  July  ar 
rived,  but  brought  no  news  of  the  voyagers. 

"  Oh,  if  they  had  come  when  they  promised,  they  might 
have  seen  me  before  I  died — but  I  cannot  hold  out  much 
longer,  Kate.  I  feel  as  if  the  longing  to  meet  Carolyn  again 
had  kept  me  up  as  by  the  excitement  of  expectation,  but, 
Kate,  I  feel  very  weary,  very  much  in^linod  to  droop,  yet 
know  if  I  should  give  way  I  should  drop  into  the  arms  of 
Death.  I  wish  they  would  come.  I  want  to  see  Carolyn.  I 
want  to  see  her  happiness  with  my  own  eyes.  And  then  it 
is  not  for  myself — for  if  I  die  before  she  comes,  Carolyn  will 
take  it  very  much  to  heart  to  know  that  her  poor  little  sister 
had  been  found  and  had  died — so  inopportunely,  just  before 
she  had  got  home.  I  wish  they  would  come." 

The  second  week  in  July  arrived — with  three  days  of  cloud, 
and  rain,  and  gloom.  Zuleime  could  not  leave  her  bed  for 
her  favorite  seat  at  the  window,  but  Catherine  served  her 
with  more  love  and  zeal  than  ever.  The  family  had  as  yet 
Deceived  no  news  of  the  travelers,  and  though  they  daily 
grew  more  anxious,  there  was  no  foreboding  in  their  anxiety. 
Sea-voyages  at  that  day  were  of  such  uncertain  length.  All 
was  no  doubt  well. 

But  on  the  evening  of  the  second  rainy  day,  while  Captain 
Fairfax  and  Catherine  sat  with  Zuleime,  and  all  the  other 
members  of  the  family  were  assembled  in  the  summer  saloo^ 


310  UIN      PALACE      CHAMBERS. n 

the  door  of  the  latter  was  quietly  opened,  and  Major  Clifton 
stood  before  the  astonished  circle.  His  mother  advanced  to 
meet  and  welcome  him.  Then  she  noticed — and  they  all  no 
ticed,  that  he  was  clothed  in  deep  mourning.  That  told  the 
talc !  They  welcomed  him  with  affectionate  sympa:hy,  hut 
no  one  asked  a  question.  Nor  did  he  as  yet  volunteer  a  word 
of  his  sorrow's  history.  It  was  only  the  next  day  that  his 
mother  learned  from  him  how  deceptive  was  the  seeming  con 
valescence  of  his  wife — how  from  the  day  of  their  embarka 
tion  her  strength  declined — how  for  weeks  their  hearts  fluc 
tuated  between  hope  and  fear,  as  with  the  changes  of  her 
flattering  disease  she  seemed  better  or  worse — how  when  ail 
thought  of  life  was  gone,  but  one  earthly  hope  possessed  her 
soul — to  die  at  home  ; — of  the  waning  of  that  last  hope — of 
the  death  at  sea — and,  finally,  of  the  lone  grave  in  the  ocean 
isle,  where  slept  the  mortal  remains  of  the  haughtiest  beauty 
L^liat  ever  trod  the  halls  of  a  palace. 

Thoy  would  willingly  have  concealed  the  fact  of  her  sis 
ter's  decease  from  the  dying  girl — no  one  ventured  to  tell 
her  of  the  event — they  fondly  believed  that  she  remained  in 
ignorance  of  it.  But  she  knew  it  all  from  what  she  saw  and 
heard.  She  knew  that  Major  Clifton  had  returned  alone,  and 
she  surmised  the  rest  from  the  sad  and  tearful  faces  of  all 
around  her.  Yes,  she  knew  it  all,  as  well  as  any  could  have 
aiade  her  know  it,  and  in  the  tender  thoughtfulness  of  her 
soul,  she  would  not  distress  any  by  asking  them  questions 
relating  to  the  last  moment.  But  from  this  hour  she  sank 
rapidly.  She  could  no  longer  be  lifted  from  her  bed  without 
fainting.  In  deep  trouble,  Captain  Fairfax  summoned  the 
old  family  physician.  When  he  came,  and  saw  the  patient, 
his  opinion  was  decidedly  formed,  and  truthfully  given — he 
said  that  the  Richmond  physician  had  evidently  abandoned 
the  case  as  hopeless,  when  he  sent  her  home  to  die — that  her 
life  had  probably  been  prolonged  by  her  residence  in  the 
country — but  that  nothing  could  have  saved  her — and  that 
ehe  had  now  not  many  days  to  live.  Captain  Fairfax  was 
almost  mad  with  grieC — and  all  the  self-possession  and  self- 
control  that  he  had  learned  in  the  long  attendance  upon  her 
sick  bed  well  nigh  deserted  him.  It  was  many  hours  before 
he  was  sufficiently  coirpos£d  to  take  his  usual  place  by  her 
bedsidf,  and  then  his  agonized  countenance  betrayed  the  ex 
tent  of  his  suffering.  Catherine  was  sitting  by  her  when  he 
*nterf  d.  Zulehne  ^a*^)d  her  dying  eyes,  and  looking  at  him. 


"IN      PALACE     CHAMBERS.**  311 

tenderly  beckoned  him  to  approach.  Then  she  motioned 
Catherin  j  to  leave  her.  When  they  were  alone-  -she  laid  her 
hand  within  his  own,  and  looking  at  him  with  unutterable 
love,  said — 

"  Dear  Frank — dearest  Frank — I  see  that  you  know  it  all 
at  last.  Dearest  Frank,  I  have  known  it  a  long  time.  Now 
let  us  talk  freely  and  confidentially  about  it — let  there  be  no 
more  of  that  painful  mist  between  us  as  when  you  thought  only 
of  my  restoration  to  health,  and  I  knew  I  was  sinking  fast 
into  the  grave."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  then  said — "  I 
want  so  much  to  comfort  you.  I  have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

His  fingers  closed  upon  her  hand  convulsively.  He  choked 
down  his  strong,  rising  emotion,  and  said — 

"  Do  not  try  to  talk,  love,  the  effort  will  exhaust  your 
strength." 

"  No — no,  it  will  not.     I  am  not  so  weak  as  I  was  when 
you  came  in.     Dearest  Frank,  when  you  sit  by  me,  a*id  hold  - 
my  hand,  new  life  seems  to  run  up  my  feeble  veins,  and  T 
feel  stronger.     Let  me  talk,  love.    Ah  !  do  not  look  so  sad  '  ; 
It  is  better  as  it  is,  love.     It .^  jsJjetter I  should  go.     I  have  | 
spoiled  my  own  life,  and  should  spoil  yours  if  I  should  live. 
Ah,  it  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  occasion  the  death  of  any  one !  I. 
it  is  an  awful  thing  to  cause  the  death  of  a  father.     I  caused;/ 
the  death  of  the  most  loving  father  that  ever  lived.     And  J 
dearest  Frank !  though  in  the  struggle,  in  the  bitterness  of  jf 
poverty,  in  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  of  cold,  and  in  the  pain 
and  debility  of  illness,  the  feeling  of  compunction  has  been 
diverted,  yet — had  health  returned  with  prosperity — remorse 
would  then  have  darkened  all  my  life  :  and  in  ruining  my 
happiness,  would  have  marred  yours.     Yes  !   I  have  spoiled  ' 
my  own  life.     It  is  well  that  I  should  not  live  to  spoil  yours, 
dearest  Frank  !     I  talk  not  of  expiation  now.     Nothing  that 
I  could  do  or  suffer,  would  alter  the  irrevocable  past.     We 
have  all  one  Redeemer — Jesus  Christ  the  Righteous.     So  I 
talk  not  of  expiating  the  past ;  though  perhaps  if  any  heart 
is  hardened  against  me,  my  early  death  may  soften  it.     But 
let  me  speak  of  the  future — your  future,  dearest  Frank,  and 
let  mo  say  it  is  better  for  all  your  coming  years  that  I  shoul^ 
die." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  so,  Zuleime — you  break  my  heart." 

"  Dear  Frank,  you  will  grieve  for  me,  I  know  you  will , 
but  be  comforted.     You  are  so  young  yet.     This  sorrow  will 


312  "IN      PALACE      CHAMBERS." 

pass  like  a  morning  cloud,  and  leave  all  your  life  a  long 
bright  clay."  She  paj^jedjibniptly — a  £raJ  shadow  swept 
darkly  over  her  face  and  vanished.  He  did  not  see  it,  his 
face  was  buried  in  his  hands.  Then  she  asked  to  have  her 
child  brought  to  her.  Frank  went  out,  but  soon  returned  to 
say  that  little  Fan  had  been  put  to  bed  ;  and  to  ask  her  if 
the  child  should  be  waked  up.  "  No,  do  not  wake  the  poor, 
little  thing,"  she  said,  and  then  added,  "  I  am  very,  very 
sleepy,  Frank  ;  dearest  Frank,  kiss  my  eyelids  down  to 
slumber  like  you  always  do,  and  hold  my  hand  till  I  fall 
asleep.  Kiss  my  lips,  too,  this  time  ;  kiss  them  last  of  all — 
— there — good-night,  love."  Her  voice  sank  away  in  a  low, 
inaudible  murmur,  like  a  dying  sound  on  the  Eolian  harp. 

Her  husband  sat  and  held  her  hand,  never  moving,  scarcely 
breathing,  lest  he  should  disturb  her  long,  deep  sleep.  He 
feat  there  more  than  an  hour.  The  room  grew  dark  with  the 
shades  of  evening ;  and  when  at  length  Catherine  entered 
with  the  night  lamp,  he  raised  his  hand  with  a  sign  of  silence 
and  caution,  murmuring — 

"  She  has  fallen  asleep."  Catherine  approached  quietly, 
shading  the  lamp  with  her  hand,  and  looked  upon  the  sleeper. 
;<  Hush,  be  very  cautious — do  not  disturb  her,"  whispered 
Frank. 

The  sweet  and  solemn  voice  of  Catherine  gently  arose,  say- 
mg,  "  Come  away,  Captain  Fairfax.  Nothing  will  ever  disturb 
ker  more.  She  has  fallen  asleep  in  J«sus." 


GEORGIA. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


GEORGIA. 


Tlie  serpent  now  began  to  change; 
Her  elfin  blood  in  madness  ran. — KEATS 


Two  months  have  passed  since  the  death  of  the  sisters 
To  the  consternation  of  the  haul  ton  of  the  city,  the  beautiful 
Mrs.  Clifton  has  left  Richmond,  and  come  down  to  mourn 
with  those  that  mourn  at  White  Cliffs.  With  an  air  at  once 
of  earnest  conviction  and  graceful  weariness,  she  says  that  it 
is  "  All  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit,"  meaning  fashionable 
society,  spring  traveling,  and  sight  seeing ;  summers  at  wa 
tering-places  among  the  mountains,  or  by  the  sea-side  ;  win 
ters  in  town,  with  plays,  concerts,  balls,  dressing,  visiting  and 
waltzing  ;  autumn  parties  in  the  country-houses,  with  eques 
trian  expeditions,  sailing  excursions,  and  forest  rides  and 
drives,  and  even  the  moonlight  serenades,  and  "  the  slight 
flirtation  by  the  light  of  the  chandelier."  Mrs.  Georgia 
speaks  the  truth.  "  Vanity"  all  this  undoubtedly  is  in  her. 
But  entres  nous,  the  "  vexation  of  spirit"  appertains  to  cer 
tain  "  small"  accounts,  ranging  from  fifty  to  fifteen  hundred 
dollars,  and  sent  in  by  landlords,  merchants,  jewelers,  mil 
liners,  etc.,  people  so  wanting  in  delicate  perception,  as  not 
to  see  that  the  honor  of  the  belle's  custom  was  quite  payment 
enough  in  itself  for  their  goods,  and  so  utterly  destitute  of 
classic  lore,  and  the  faculty  of  distinguishing  persons,  as 
actually  to  draw  out  on  a  piece  of  paper  a  list  of  items  oppo 
site  to  a  row  of  figures,  with  a  sum  total  at  the  bottom,  and 
send  it  to  a  Circe,  as  if  she  were  a  tradesman,  and  could  uri- 
dor.stand  it !  Charming  Georgia  did  not  even  try  to  compre 
hend  such  mysterious  hieroglyphics.  She  knew,  bewitching 
creature !  that  "  where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to  be 
wise."  Therefore,  to  escape  duns,  to  recruit  health  and 
spirits,  and,  of  all  things,  to  console  Major  Clifton,  she  has 
?ouie  down  to  White  Cliffs.  The  beautiful  Georgia  presented 


314  GEORGIA. 

herself  to  the  mourning  master  of  "\YMte  Cliffs  in  a  very  de 
precating  spirit — she  said  that  she  felt  her  arrival  there  at 
such  a  moment  to  be  almost  an  intrusion,  but  that  he  would 
excuse  it,  as  she  had  exhausted  money  and  credit,  and  had  no 
other  home. 

"  You  know,"  she  added,  as  the  tears  suffused  her  large, 
dark  eyes,  "  I  am  like  the  unjust  steward  of  the  parable,  *  I 
cannot  work — to  beg  I  am  ashamed.' J; 

"  Except  instead  of  being  unjust,  you  suffer  from  the  in 
justice  of  others,"  said  Archer  Clifton,  very  gently.  He 
said  that  he  considered  the  entail,  which  cut  off  the  widow 
from  any  share  in  the  landed  estate  of  her  deceased  husband, 
very  unjust  and  cruel.  He  knew  that  his  uncle  had  deeply 
regretted  it,  and  would  have  left  all  his  personal  property  to 
her,  had  it  not  been  swallowed  up  by  debt.  He  said  that  he 
himself  deplored  the  circumstance,  and  if  it  were  legally  in 
his  power,  he  would  divide  the  land  with  her,  but  that  he 
only  held  it  in  entail,  and  as  entire  as  it  came  to  him  it  must 
be  held  for  his  heirs.  He  added,  that  he  considered  it  his 
duty  to  compensate  his  uncle's  widow  for*the  injustice  of  the 
law  to  her,  and  that  the  case  being  so,  she  would  find  thirty 
thousand  dollars  placed  to  her  account  in  the  Bank  of  Rich 
mond.  Mrs.  Georgia  was  overcome  with  emotion  at  this 
generosity  on  the  part  of  Major  Glifton.  She  put  her  hand 
kerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  arose  hurriedly,  with  every  mark 
rf  extreme  agitation,  exclaiming — 

"  No,  no — this  is  too  much  !  too  good  !  only  lend  me  the 
shelter  of  this  roof — once  my  home — until  I  look  about  me 
and  consider  what  to  do." 

He  took  her  hand,  with  every  demonstration  of  the  ten- 
derest  affection  and  respect,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  and 
begged  her  to  consider  herself  as  heretofore,  mistress  of  the 
establishment  for  as  long  as  she  wished — for  her  whole  life, 
if  she  pleased — and  himself  only  as  her  sometime  guest- — 
adding,  that  it  was  impossible  he  should  ever  bring  another 
_ady  there.  She  Avithdrew  her  handkerchief  from  her  eyes, 
and  glancing  at  him  with  a  countenance  eloquent  with  grati 
tude,  respect,  and  affection,  exclaimed — 

"  1  take  a  large  portion  of  your  personal  property,  and  / 
turn  you  from  your  home !  Oh  !  no,  no,  no,  thou  thricu 
noble  and  generous  man,  no !  Not  one  dollar  of  that  money 
will  I  touch,  so  help  me  Heaven  !  And  not  one  hour  will  I 
stay  un^er  this  n>of,  if  the  master  of  the  house  is  to  be  onlj 


GEORGIA.  815 

my  '  sometime  gue.st !'  No  !  I — I — I  must  £0  back  to  the 
city,  and  give  lessons  in  drawing  and  painting,  as  befits  the 
artist's  daughter." 

"  And  as  does  not  bent  my  uncle's  widow,  lady  !"  said 
Archer  Clifton,  again  taking  her  hand.  "  I  have  considered 
myself  in  some  sort  your  guardian  arid  protector — if  you  will 
admit  the  claim.  Now,  listen  to  me  calmly,  and  act  reason 
ably,  for  we  of  White  Cliffs  are  not  accustomed  to  be  opposed 
by  the  ladies  of  our  family.  Hear  me,  then :  This  money, 
which  I  have  placed  to  your  account,  is  rightfully  yours.  I 
will  explain.  It  was  the  fortune  of  my  dearest  Carolyn — " 
here  his  voice  faltered,  he  paused  a  moment,  during  which 
Georgia  pressed  his  hand,  and  looked  in  his  face  with  an  ex 
pression  of  unspeakable  sympathy — then  he  resumed,  calmly, 
"  Had  she  died  unmarried,  and  during  her  father's  lifetime, 
this  money  would  have  reverted  to  him,  and  he  would  doubt 
less  have  left  it  to  you.  I  only  give  you  that  which,  but  for 
me,  might  have  reached  you  more  directly.  And  now  let 
that  subject  rest  forever." 

"  Ah,  but  best  and  most  generous  of  friends,  I  drive  you 
from  your  home  by  staying  here !  I  cannot  stay !  I  must 
depart !» 

"  You  must  not,  Mrs.  Clifton — this  is  youi  proper  home, 
as  it  is  also  mine.  You  do  not  drive  me  hence — why  should 
you  ?  Could  I  possibly  remain,  your  company  would  be  the 
dearest  solace  I  could  have.  No  !  it  is  memory  that  drives 
me  hence,  sweet  friend !  I  must — I  must  forget  myself  in 
distant  lands!  Forgive  me  for  talking  thus — to  be  quite 
plain,  as  soon  as  the  intricate  affairs  of  this  estate  are  disen 
tangled,  and  wound  up,  I  design  to  set  out  for  two  or  three 
years  of  travel ;  yet  I  shall  not  be  able  to  get  off  for  several 
weeks." 

Here  the  conversation  ended  for  the  present.  Thinking 
that  for  the  first  few  days,  at  least,  Mrs.  Georgia  would  need 
a  female  companion,  he  got  in  his  chaise,  and  went  ever  to 
liardbargain  for  Catherine. 

"  Kate  is  not  here,"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  in  answer  to  his 
inquiries — "  do  you  not  know  that  she  has  been  for  three 
weeks  at  her  brother's  cabin,  nursing  his  wife  through  her 
confinement  ?" 

Major  Clifton  threw  his  hat  upon  the  table,  and  dropped 
himself  into  a  chair,  with  an  air  of  extreme  vexation,  say 
rug— 


316  GEORGIA. 

"  It  really  seems  to  me  that  that  girl  is  nurse  and  scr- 
vant-in-general  to  the  neighborhood !  Her  brother  might 
easily  have  found  some  old  woman  to  nurse  his  wife.  I  won 
der  you  permit  her  to  be  made  such  a  slave  of  by  everybody, 
mother." 

"  It  does  her  no  harm.  Archer." 

"  Twelve  months  since  you  introduced  Catherine  into  the 
best  society  in  Richmond." 

"  The  richest,  you  mean — not  the  best,  by  a  great  deal." 

"  And  now  you  suffer  her  to  throw  herself  into  the  most 
vulgar  and  common  !  Dear  madam,  is  this  right  ?" 

" '  What  God  hath  cleansed,  call  not  thou  common,  or 
unclean ' — yes  !  it  is  right !  Catherine,  a  girl  of  the  very  hum 
blest  birth,  with  natural  talent  and  acquired  accomplishments 
that  fit  her  for  any  circle — should  mix  with  all.  And, 
Archer,  what  do  you  mean  by  '  vulgar  ?'  If  ignoble  minds, 
corrupt  hearts,  and  mean  actions  constitute  vulgarity — then 
I  for  one  have  met  more  vulgar  people  in  so-called  high-life 
than  ever  I  saw  in  low-life  !" 

"  My  dear  mother,  you  are  a  Republican — let  us  waive 
this  discussion,  for  I  dislike  to  differ  from  you,  and  tell  me 
where  I  shall  find  Catherine,  for  she  positively  must  return 
with  me  to  White  Cliffs,  to  bear  Mrs.  Georgia  company, 
until  some  other  companion  can  be  procured  for  her." 

"  Catherine  is  at  her  brother's  cabin,  as  I  told  you." 

"  The  same  cabin  he  occupied  before  I  left  home  V9 

"  Certainly." 

Major  Clifton  entered  the  gig,  and  turned  the  horse's  head 
towards  the  dell  in  which  the  overseer's  cabin  stood.  When 
he  drew  up  before  the  door,  Carl  came  out  to  welcome  him, 
and  invite  him  to  alight. 

"  No,  thank  you,  send  Catherine  hither,"  he  said — 

Carl  looked  very  much  as  though  he  did  riot  intend  to 
obey  this  haughty  behest — but  Catherine  had  already  heard 
the  demand,  and  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  How-do-you-do,  Kate  ?  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  is  at  my 
house,  and  I  wish  you  to  return  with  me  to  attend  upon  her. 
Come,  get  your  bonnet,  at  once,  Catherine,  for  I  am  rather 
hurried." 

"  We  cannot  spare  Catherine,  sir,"  said  Carl,  in  a  tone  of 
displeasure. 

"  I  did  not  address  myself  to  you,  my  good  fellow,"  said 
Major  Clifton  locking  over  his  head,  and  through  the  dooi 


GEORGIA.  817 

of    the    cabin,   watcl  ing    Catherine,   as   she   tied   on   her 
bonnet. 

When  Kate  same  out,  lie  handed  her  into  the  gig,  and 
nodding  carelessly  to  the  flushed,  indignant  Carl,  drove  off. 
When  they  had  driven  a  little  way — 

"  Catherine,"  he  said,  "  is  that  man  your  full  brother  V9 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  The  same  father  and  mother  ?" 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  Humph  !  You  are  not  at  all  alike  in  feature.  Are  you 
very  much  attached  to  this  brother,  Catherine  V9 

«  Yes,  sir." 

"  Humph."  He  did  not  speak  again  until  they  had 
reached  White  Cliffs,  when  he  hande-I  her  out,  and  said — 
"  Catherine,  Mrs.  Georgia  is  greatly  fatigued  ;  I  wish  you  to 
attend  to  her  comforts,,  this  evening — do  you  hear  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replied  Kate. 

The  next  day  Mrs.  Clifton,  of  Hardbargain,  came  over  to 
call  on  Georgia.  And  afterwards,  at  the  earnest  solicitation 
of  her  son,  she  paid  them  a  visit  of  a  week.  Major  Clifton 
busied  himself  with  the  settlement  of  the  estate.  Although 
the  great  debts  of  the  late  Mr.  Clifton  could  not  be  recovered 
of  him,  he  determined  to  pay  them  all.  A  great  many  of 
them  he  discharged  at  once,  by  cash ;  and  in  payment  of 
others,  he  gave  notes,  bearing  interest.  The  calling  in  of  these 
numerous  debts,  and  the  arrangement  of  the  terms  of  pay 
ment,  and  other  matters,  occupied  him  nearly  two  months. 
BO  that  it  was  the  last  of  autumn  before  he  was  ready  to  «et 
out  on  his  journey. 

He  had  taken  leave  of  his  mother  the  evening  previous  to 
the  day  upon  which  he  was  to  leave  home.  The  next  morn 
ing,  in  parting  from  Mrs.  Georgia  and  Catherine,  he  took 
leave  of  the  lady,  in  a  tender  and  respectful  manner,  raising 
her  hand  to  his  lips — but  he  drew  Kate  to  his  bosom,  and 
pushing  back  the  rippling  waves  of  chestnut  hair,  that  con 
cealed  or  shaded  two-thirds  of  her  massive  forehead,  he  said, 
grat  ely  and  sweetly — 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  this  brain  while  I  am 
gone,  Kate?  How  much  longer  will  it  lie  fallcw  ?  Well' 
Never  mind !"  Ho  kissed  her  freely  and  fondly  as  a  near 
relative  might,  and  bowing  once  more  to  Mrs.  Georgia,  has 
tened  away.  He  paused  upon  the  threshold  of  the  door, 
hrwever,  seemed  to  hesitate,  then  suddenly  came  back,  seized 
20 


31S  GEORGIA. 

the  han'l  of  Kate,  and  drew  her  out  upon  the  porch.  "  Ca 
therine,"  he  said,  "  do  you  remember  a  promise  you  made  m* 
once — not  to  marry  without  my  consent  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  remember  it." 

<kl  hold  you  to  that  promise,  Kate.  I  must  speak  plainly 
to  you  at  the  risk  or  the  certainty  of  wounding  your  feelings ; 
yours  is  a  singular  position,  Catherine — a  girl  of  humble 
Lirth,  quite  penniless,  yet  with  education  and  accomplish 
ments  that  fit  her  to  grace  a  higher  circle.  It  is  not  likely, 
Catherine,  that  any  gentleman  in  this  part  of  the  country 
will  ever  become  a  suitor  for  your  hand,  and  no  one  who  i? 
not  a  gentleman  should  be  permitted  to  do  60 ! — Therefore, 
Catherine,  I  wish  you  to  promise  me  not  to  listen  to  any  pro 
posals  without  my  consent." 

"  I  promised  you  long  ago,  sir.  I  will  keep  that  promise 
until  you  release  me  from  it !" 

"  That  is  a  good  girl !  Now,  then,  once  more  good-bye," 
and  again  he  folded  her  to  his  bosom,  and  then,  indeed,  he 
was  gone. 

Catherine  turned  with  the  intention  of  seeking  her  own 
room,  but  was  instantly  confronted  by  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton, 
who  stood  before  her  with  pallid  cheek,  set  teeth,  and  gleam 
ing  eyes.  She  caught  the  wrist  of  the  girl,  and  keeping  a 
strong,  vice-like  grasp  upon  it,  dragged  her  almost  with  vio 
lence  into  the  parlor  before  the  window,  a»d  casting  herself 
into  a  chair,  pulled  Catherine  up  before  her,  and  fixed  those 
wild,  dilated,  star-like  eyes  upon  her  face.  It  fell  blushing 
under  the  gaze. 

"  You  love  that  man,"  she  said,  drawing  hei  breath  hardly, 
like  one  in  a  passing  pain. 

The  blush  deepened  upon  Catherine's  cheek,  but  she  did 
not  reply  in  words. 

"  Speak  !  Answer  me !  You  love  that  man  ?"  she  re 
peated,  clutching  the  wrist  of  the  girl  so  tightly  as  to  cause 
her  to  wince. 

"  Madam,  I  am  grateful  to  Major  Clifton — he  is  my  bene 
factor — he  cares  for  me,  and  I  am  grateful  to  him." 

"  He  is  an  arrogant  man — he  reminded  you  of  your  low 
birth." 

"  1  know  he  did,  madam,  and  perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
vindicated  our  common  human  nature,  arid  told  him.  as  I 
tell  you  now,  that  there  is  no  such  thing  in  God  6  universe 
as  low  birth,  that  every  child  comes  into  His  w».»rld  with 


GEORGIA.  319 

equal  claim  upon  His  people  ;  perhaps  it  wag  my  duty  to 
have  told  him  this,  only  I  am  always  a  coward  before  Major 
Clifton,  and  never  can  say  the  right  thing  at  the  right  time 
to  him,  as  I  can  to  others." 

<£  You  love  him  !  That  is  the  reason  !  And  you  are  i 
fool  if  you  do  not  know  it,  or  a  hypocrite  if,  knowing  it,  you 
deny  it.  But  he  despises  your  love !  He  said  to  you,  him 
self,  that  no  gentleman  would  be  likely  to  be  a  soiitor  fo» 
your  hand !" 

"  I  know  he  did,  lady.  His  care  for  me  makes  him  sav 
rough,  blunt  things  sometimes.  I  can  bear  them  from  him." 

"  You  love  him  !  Deny  it,  if  you  dare  !  But  you  are  an 
idiot !  an  idiot !  if  you  do  not  take  his  hint  to  conquer  that 
passion  !  He  said  it  was  not  likely  that  any  gentleman 
would  ever  become  a  suitor  for  your  hand !  he  is  a  gentle 
man — therefore  he  can  never  stoop  to  you!  You  do  not 
answer  me !  Do  you,  perchance,  deceive  yourself  with  the 
idea  that  he  ever  will  ?" 

"  Lady — T?O,  I  do  not  deceive  myself  with  the  idea  that 
he  will  ever  <  stoop'  to  marry  me.  The  woman  that  Major 
Clifton  shall  marry,  if  he  ever  marries,  will  be  quite  worthy 
of  him,  and  that  will  preclude  the  idea  of  his  *  stooping'  tc 
her." 

"  And  that  woman  will  not  be  yow,  presumptuous  girl 
Do  you  dare  to  hope  it  will  ?     Speak!     Answer  me  !" 

"  Lady  !"  said  Catherine,  in  a  tone  of  grave  and  dignified 
rebuke,  "  considering  the  recent  bereavement  of  Major  Clif 
ton,  the  discussion  into  which  you  have  drawn  me  is  indeli 
cate,  to  use  no  harsher  term  !" 

"'Recent!'  It  is  of  five  months'  standing!  You  evade 
my  question  !  You  evade  all  my  questions  !  I  asked  you 
if  you  loved  him !  Answer  me  !" 

"  Lady !  long  ago  my  heart  became  too  unruly  for  my  own 
managemeLt,  and  I  gave  it,  with  all  its  desires  and  affections, 
U  God.  I  love  nothing  out  of  Him  !" 

"  And  do  you  expect  Archer  Clifton  will  ever  marry  you * 
Answer  that!" 

"  Madam,  I  expect  nothing." 

"  Do  you  hope  it,  then '?" 

"  Lady,  I  hope  nothing." 

"  You  prevaricate,  girl !     Do  you  wish  it  then  ?" 

"  Madam,  I  only  wish  that  God  may  appoint  all  timea* 
seasons  and  eveats  in  my  life — making  me  humble,  generou* 


320  GEORGIA. 

and  grateful  in  prosperity,  if  it  comes ;  and  strong,  cou 
rageous  and  patient  in  adversity,  if,  as  is  most  likely,  that 
comes !" 

««•  Humph — would  it  make  you  happy  to  be  the  wife  of 
Archer  Clifton  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that  ques 
tion  !» 

"  Yet  I  do  ask  you,  and  I  insist  upon  a  reply  '" 

"  And  I  decline  giving  it." 

"  I  am  answered  !  You  love  Archer  Clifton  !  You  feed 
your  heart  upon  the  secret  hope  of  one  day  being  his  wife ! 
And  liow  listen  to  me,  girl !"  she  exclaimed,  every  vestige 
i  of  prudence  and  self-restraint  swept  away  by  her  rising  pas 
sion,  "  I,  too,  day  and  night,  feed  my  soul  upon  one  des 
perate  hope — that  I  live  for,  would  die  for,  or  go  to  perdition 
for  !  /,  too,  love  Clifton.  I  loved  him  the  first  hour  I  ever 
saw  him.  I  have  loved  him  ever  since,  only  more  madly  for 
every  obstacle,  danger,  duty  that  stood  between,  dividing  us! 
I  have  schemed,  dared,  sinned  for  him  !  Twice  he  has  been 
snatched  from  me  by  fate,  twice  restored  to  my  hopes  !  Oh  i 
I  know  my  own  strong  will  had  much  to  do  with  that  restora 
tion  !  He  is  given  to  my  hopes  again !  Think  you,  now, 
jthat  you  can  win  him  from  me  ?  JVb,  idiot !  If  there  be 
any  power  in  my  own  soul,  on  earth,  in  Heaven,  or  in  hell  to 
/help  me,  I  will  find  it  out,  and  enlist  it  to  give  me  this  one 
desire  of  my  heart,  this  man's  love !  Since  first  I  ever  be 
held  his  face,  I  have  dreamed,  hoped,  toiled,  lived  for  nothing 
else !  I  have  suffered  for  him !  Oh  !  angels  and  devils  !  how  I 
have  suffered  for  him !  In  the  days  when  he  came  wooing 
Carolyn,  wooing  her  before  the  face  of  me,  bound  with  indisso 
luble  chains  ! — me,  loving  him  as  she  had  no  power  or  con 
ception  of  loving  anything !  Many  times  I  was  almost  mad  with 
despair  ! — knowing,  too,  if  he  would  only  love  me  I  should  bo 
nearly  mad  with  joy  !  I  have  sacrificed  great  prospects  for 
him.  Yes  !  little  as  you  think  me  capable  of  it !  This  sum 
mer  I  might  have  made  a  splendid  alliance  in  Richmor.d — a 
traveling  nobleman — an  English  nobleman,  girl !  a  baron  with 
an  annual  rental  of  thirty  thousand  pounds  ste-'jn« — with 
seats  in  the  three  kingdoms,  and  a  palace  in  Portman  Square. 
I  rejected  him,  when  I  knew  that  Clifton  wis  free  !  In  the 
faint  hope  of  winning  Clifton,  I  would  not  bind  myself.  All 
that  I  have  ever  done  of  good  or  of  evil  has  had  him  for  its 
find  and  obiect !  I  was  the  belle,  queen,  idol  of  Richmond 


GEORGIA.  321 

If  I  schemed  and  toiled  for  a  position,  and  gloried  in  my 
success,  it  was  that  he  might  hear  of  it,  and  his  pride  might 
be  enlisted  for  me  !  You  saw  me  one  winter  at  the  governor's 
recopoion!  You  saw  how  I  was  worshiped  there!  But  he, 
was  present — and  free,  and  I  did  not  care  what  the  thou 
sands  thought  of  me,  I  only  cared  what  that  unit  might 
think  !"  Her  voice  cank  into  tenderness,  and  she  paused, 
and  dropped  her  brow  into  both  open  hands.  But  soon  rais 
ing  her  head  again,  she  said,  "  Look  at  me  well !  Ay, 
look  !  What  sort  of  a  rival  do  you  take  me  to  be  ?  If  you 
cannot  guess,  I  will  tell  you !  I  am  not  superstitious  or 
scrupulous,  as  you  are  !  I  am  one,  who,  for  my  soui's  great 
passion,  will  do,  or  dare,  or  suffer  anything  !  I  ask  no  leave 
of  earth  or  Heaven  for  what  I  do !  I  do  what  I  will,  or  can, 
and  take  the  consequences  :  earth  or  Heaven  can  but  punish, 
and  I  can  risk  or  bear  it ! — for  there  is  no  pain  or  lous  in  tho 
universe  that  I  weigh  with  the  loss  of  my  love  !  And  not 
for  the  fear  of  eternal  perdition — not  for  the  hope  of  ever 
lasting  salvation,  will  I  forego  the  joy  of  my  mortal  love ! 
Now,  hear  me,  girl !"  She  rose  upon  her  feet,  bending  over 
Catherine,  with  her  hand  clutched  upon  the  maiden's  shoul 
der  with  a  vice-like  grip,  and,  gazing  into  her  eyes  wth  con 
tracted,  gleaming  pupils,  she  said, — while  her  voice  dropped 
into  the  low,  deep,  stern  tone  of  intense  and  concentrated 
passion,  in  which  every  word,  syllable,  letter  was  articulated 
with  a  distinct,  metallic  ring  : — "  Now,  hear  me  !  If  you 
dare  to  come  between  me  and  my  love — by  the  living  Lord 
that  sent  my  burning  soul  upon  this  dull  earth,  and  who  can 
hurl  it  hence  to  a  burning  perdition — I  will  find  a  way  to 
kill  you  !  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

Catherine  grew  pale  beneath  the  tiger  eye  and  clutch  of 
the  fearful  woman,  but  she  answered — 

*'  Madam,  I  have  heard  ;you  utter  wild  and  wicked  words. 
I  will  endeavor  to  forget  them." 

"  Remember  them  !     You  are  warned  !" 

And  releasing  her  hold,  the  dark  lady  passed  from  the 
room. 

Catherine  remained  sitting  where  she  had  left  her,  appalled 
by  the  exhibition  of__d1ejiiDniac--pas5ion  she  had  witnessed. 
One  pain  and  one  fear  possessed  her  above  all  others — deep 
regret  that  this  most  wicked  woman  had  evidently  already 
attained  such  an  ascendancy  over  the  mind  of  Clifton,  and 
•lr«-*d  lest,  '*Q  despite  of  all  the  sin,  she  would  gaiu  her  <-b- 


S22  GEORGIA. 

iect — his  hand !  But  Catherine  carried  all  her  doubts  and 
fears  to  her  Heavenly  Father.  And  soon  to  her  clear,  strong 
mind  it  became  evident,  that  howevsr  wicked  and  unscrupu 
lous,  potent  and  dangerous  the  Circe  might  be  on  ordinary 
occasions,  she  possessed  too  little  self-government,  was  unde? 
the  influence  of  too  strong  and  impetuous  passions,  to  suc 
ceed  in  maintaining  any  long  course  of  duplicity,  such  as 
would  be  necessary  to  the  accomplishment  of  her  purpose,. 
And  Kate  became  calm.  She  wished  to  leave  the  house. 
She  could  ill  bear  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  this  wo 
man,  and  meet  her  at  least  three  times  a  day,  at  meals,  if  no 
oftener  But  she  had  promised  Major  Clifton  to  remain  wi4h 
Mrs.  Georgia  until  she  should  have  other  company,  and  she 
must  keep  her  promise.  It  was,  besides,  doubly  sacred,  be 
ing  made  to  him,  and  the  pain  it  brought  her  was  enduraL 
— borne  for  him. 

Mrs.  Georgia  sought  the  garden,  the  open  air,  anywher 
where  she  could  breathe  freely,  "When  the  storm  in  her 
bosom  had  subsided,  and  reason  was  again  in  the  ascendant, 
she  could  have  torn  her  hair  and  beat  her  breast,  yea,  and 
rent  her  garments  with  excess  of  chagrin,  to  think  that  she 
had  so  betrayed  herself  to  Catherine.  She  did  not  fully  be 
lieve  that  Catherine  would  repeat  this  scene  where  it  could 
injure  her,  or  anywhere,  in  fact.  Still,  she  thought  it  safer 
to  guard  against  such  a  contingency,  and  while  she  herself 
still  possessed  the  unshaken  confidence  and  respect  <rf  Major 
Cliftoi),  to  impugn  the  conduct  and  character  of  Catherine, 
and  thus  forestall  and  invalidate  any  testimony  she  might 
hereafter  give.  She  felt  that  she  must  proceed  very  cau 
tiously.  A  plan  of  correspondence  had  been  arranged  with 
Major  Clifton,  previous  to  his  departure.  She  soon  began  to 
receive  long  letters  from  him,  filled  with  interesting  descrip 
tions  of  the  countries  through  which  he  passed,  the  people 
whom  he  met,  and  philosophical  comments  upon  both.  And 
to  these  she  replied  in  other  letters,  full  of  appreciation,  ad 
miration,  gratitude,  and  breathing,  besides,  the  highest,  pu 
rest,  most  disinterested  sentiments  and  opinions  upon  all  the 
subjects  of  their  correspondence.  Into  these  letters,  she 
gradually  introduced  the  name  of  Catherine — carelessly,  at 
first,  as  if  she  thought  little  about  her,  one  way  or  the  other, 
—as  thus  :  "  Catherine  is  with  me  still — she  desires  to  be 
luneuibered ;"  then,  in  a  second  letter,  by  a  slight  line  of 
praise,  as  though  the  <?irl  was  rather  winning  upon  her,  as--- 


GEORGIA. 

«  Catherine  is  well.  By  the  way,  what  a  remarkably  clever 
girl  she  is ;"  then,  in  another,  with  warmer  panegyric,  as 
though  she  really  very  much  improved  upon  longer  acquaint 
ance,  thus  :  "  How  can  I  ever  thank  you  sufficiently  for 
placing  Catherine  with  me  ?"  Next  came  high  encomiums  upon 
Catherine's  talents,  in  this  wise  :  "  Catherine  has  left  me, 
and  is  with  your  mother,  as  no  doubt  the  latter  has  written 
}ou.  Apropos  !  What  a  mind  that  girl  has  !  Did  you  ever 
observe  ?"  And  then,  in  a  subsequent  epistle,  came  an  ex 
pression  of  wonder  at  the  "  diplomatic"  character  of  Kate's 
intellect,  and  an  opinion  that  the  writer  really  believed  her 
thrown  away  in  private  life.  And  next,  a  cooler  mention  of 
tho  maiden,  with  the  hint  of  a  fear  that  she  was  gaining  the 
mastery  over  Mrs.  Clifton's  strong  mind.  Finally,  after 
some  months,  she  wrote  thus,  as  if  speaking  frankly  from  a 
sense  of  duty,  and  at  the  cost  of  great  pain :  "  I  fear  that  I 
have  been  greatly  deceived  in  my  estimate  of  Catherine'** 
good  principles.  How  shall  I  introduce  what  I  am  about  to 
say  to  you  ?  But  you  had  best  come  home  and  see  for  your 
self.  For  I  know  that  your  mother  is  in  the  power  of  as 
dangerous  an  intriguante  as  I  ever  heard  of;  and  mind — she 
will  influence  Mrs.  Clifton  to  disinherit  her  own  son,  and  be 
queath  her  the  farm  at  Hardbargain.  That  '  Maria  Teresa' 
brow  of  hers  meant  something,  after  all.  But  you  do  not 
know  with  what  pain  I  write  this,  Archer  !  I  cannot  pursue 
the  subject — only  regard  for  you,  and  fidelity  to  your -in 
terests,  would  have  drawn  me  to  its  discussion.  I  advise 
you  to  come  home  and  look  after  your  own  welfare '" 

What  influence  this  had  upon  Major  Clifton,  will  be  seen 
in  the  sequel. 

And  while  Georgia  was  exercising  her  power  abroad,  she 
was  busy  at  borne  also  Having  heard  or  guessed  at  Colonel 
Conycr's  u  foolish"  attachment  to  Catherine,  she  wrote  and 
invited  him  to  make  up  a  party  of  his  own  friends,  and  coma 
down  and  spend  Christmas  with  her.  And  the  gallant  offi 
cer,  delighted  with  this  quintessence  and  perfection  of  confi 
dence  and  hospitality — this  carte  blanche  to  be  filled  up  at 
his  own  pleasure,  wrote  and  most  gratefully  accepted  the  in- 
ritatbn  for  himself  arid  "friends." 


324  CATHERINE. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

CATHERINE. 
Now  has  descended  a  serener  hour  — KEATS. 

COLONEL  CONYERS  exercised  tact  and  discretion  in  avail 
ing  himself  of  the  privilege  granted  him  by  Georgia.  In 
consideration  of  the  recent  affliction  of  the  family,  he  made 
up  a  very  quiet  and  appropriate  party — namely,  the  lady's 
father,  the  artist,  a  pale  young  clergyman  who  was  suffering 
for  country  air,  and  the  wife  and  sister  of  the  latter. 

After  his  arrival  at  White  Cliffs,  Mrs.  Georgia  gave  him 
every  opportunity  of  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  Cath 
erine,  and  every  encouragement  to  persist  in  his  suit.  Girls, 
she  said,  were  often  whimsical,  and  Catherine  was  especially 
shy,  but  disposed  to  think  highly  of  her  suitor,  and  well 
worth  the  trouble  of  perseverance.  Colonel  Conyers  there 
upon  grew  importunate,  and  Catherine  became  distressed  at 
his  persistance,  and  announced  her  intention  of  returning  to 
Ilardburgain.  When  her  lover  heard  this,  his  grief  seemed 
unbounded — he  had  so  long  counted  on  success,  so  long  been 
deceived  by  Mrs.  Georgia's  assurances,  and  by  Catherine's 
gentleness  of  denial,  that  now  when  his  hopes  were  quite 
overthrown,  he  became  passionate  and  vehement  in  his  de 
monstrations  of  sorrow.  His  trouble  affected  Catherine  very 
deeply.  She  went  and  sat  down  by  him,  and  laid  her  ban 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  said,  in  her  gentle  sympathetic 
tones — 

"  Do  not  grieve  so  :  indeed  I  am  not  worth  so  much  lov<» 
or  so  much  rpgret — indeed  I  am  not — I  am  a  poor  girl,  very 
ignorant  of  society,  very  full  of  weakness  and  error." 

"  Oh,  Catherine  !   Catherine  !  that  is  nothing  to  the  pup 
pose !     You  are  what  you  are,  and  I  adore  you  !     Do  not 
paake  me  wretched  ." 

**  Ueaven  kuows  I  do  not  wish  to!     I  am  your  friend — 


CATHERINE.  325 

indcet,  I  am.  I  would  do  anything  in  the  world  to  give  you 
peace,  indeed  1  would — except — " 

"  Except  love  me,  proud  girl!" 

«  <  Proud  ?'  No,  I  am  not  proud.  Why  should  I  bo  ? 
Do  not  mock  me !  Indeed  I  feel  that  you  have  conferred 
ihe  greatest  honor  upon  me  in  your  preference.  An  offer  of 
a  is  hand  is  the  highest  mark  of  respect  and  confidence  a  man 
can  give  a  woman:  the  world  would  think  it  higher  still, 
coming  from  one  of  your  rank  to  one  of  mine.  I  myself 
should  in  any  case  be  proud  of  your  regard,  only-  " 

"Well?     'Only?'" 

"  Only  I  feel  so  grieved  to  see  you  look  so  sorrowfully  ; 
but— " 

"  Well,  my  dear  girl,  well !  but  what  ?" 

She  paused,  a  slight  blush  suffused  her  cheek — she  ga 
thered  courage  and  went  on  to  say — 

"  I  do  Hot  know  why  I  should  not  speak  anything  that 
may  be  upon  my  heart,  at  whatever  cost  to  my  natural  feel 
ings,  if  the  hearing  of  it  will  do  good  to  any  human  "being. 
Yes  !  I  will  speak,  for  your  sake.  I  do  not  fear  to  speak,  for 
I  have  perfect  confidence  in  you.  Listen  then,  Colonel 
Conyers,  dear  friend.  You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has 
missed  earthly  happiness.  I  think  it  must  be  written  in  the 
book  of  fate,  that  we  may  not  have  those  whom  we  love  too 
deeply — in  other  words,  that  wr  may  not  have  idols.  It  seems 
to  me,  that  notwithstanding  all  other  troubles,  it  would  make 
us  too  happy,  in  an  existence  designed  chiefly  for  trial  and 
probation." 

"  That  is  a  sad,  strange,  despairing  sentiment,  for  one  so 
young ! " 

"  No,  not  despairing — for  if  we  may  not  have  joy,  there 
remain  the  peace  and  cheerfulness  found  in  duty.  And  if 
we  may  not  have  the  love  of  the  heart's  idol,  there  remain 
the  affection  of  relatives,  the  esteem  of  friends,  the  love  of 
God,  and  the  hope  of  Heaven." 

"  Catherine,  you  have  loved.  Tell  me  about  ?t  my 
child." 

"  I  intended  to  tell  you  about  it.  It  is  the  best  proof  of 
entire  confidence  and  esteem  that  I  can  give  you.  It  will 
show  you  how  highly  I  value  you,  and  it  will  assure  you  also, 
of  the  utter  impossibility  of  getting  a  heart  that  is  not  mine 
u\  orive — if  it  were  worth  giving." 

She  paused  in  grea?  embarrassment,  her  checks  wore  sut- 


336  CATHERINE. 

fused  with  blushes,  yet  she  seemed  resolved  to  proceed.     Ai 
if  to  assist  her,  he  said— - 

"  This  being  whom  you  deify  with  your  love,  my  child ! 
what  a  splendid,  what  a  magnificent  nature  he  must  have' 
what  transcendant  personal  attractions!  what  an  intellect 
what  a  heart !     Is  it  not  so  ?  tell  me  !'* 

"  Ah  !  no  ;  you  are  mistaken  ;  these  things  excite  adim'ia* 
lion  and  wonder,  they  do  not  of  themselves  win  afiection. 
Oh.  no  !  he  of  whom  you  speak,  is  not  so  handsome  as  you 
are  ;  he  has  no  more  mind  than  you  have,  and  not  so  much 
heart — even  /  admit  that." 

"  And  yet  you  love  him,  and  can  love  him." 

"  Even  so — do  you  wonder  at  it  ?  Have  not  you  passed 
by  women — handsome,  graceful,  accomplished — to  fix  upon 
a  plain  country  girl  like  me  ?" 

"  Oh,  but  not  women  with  your  candor,  purity  and  strength 
of  mind.  Oh,  Kate !  what  depths  of  truth  and  innocence 
you  have  revealed  in  the  very  confession  you  have  made  me! 
Who  else  but  yourself  dared  make  such  a  revelation  ?" 

Catherine  looked  up  at  the  speaker  in  doubt. 

"  Go  on,  dear  girl.  Tell  me  that  this  man  adores  you, 
Mid  I  will  never,  while  I  live,  trouble  you  with  myself 
again." 

"  Ah,  no !  it  was  nothing  like  that  which  I  set  out  to  tell 
you.  Ah,  no  !  I  only  wished  to  let  you  know — that  your 
case  of  disappointed  affection  is  not  solitary — that  I  too  have 
missed  life's  crowning  joy — the  love  of  one  I  love.  He  does 
not  even  notice  me  now.  I  never  permit  myself  to  dream 
that  he  will  ever  love  me.  Yet  I  would  like  to  live  with  him, 
to  serve  him — myself  unknown,  unnoticed,  if  I  might  only 
be  near  him.  I  envy  the  waiting-maids  and  men,  and  even 
the  dogs,  who  are  full-feasted  every  day,  with  the  presence 
for  which  my  heart  starves.  I  would  like  to  give  my  life  to 
his  service,  but  I  am  unnecessary  to  his  smallest  need.  Well ' 
I  cannot  do  him  any  good ;  but  I  serve  one  who  is  dear  to 
him,  and  so  I  stay  the  hunger  of  my  heart.  Please  do  not 
think  ill  of  me  for  telling  you  all  this.  It  would  grieve  me 
to  have  you  think  any  evil  of  me.  I  esteem  you,  and  want 
your  esteem.  I  have  done  some  violence  to  my  instincts  in 
telling  you  this.  -Do  not"  think  ill  of  me  for  doing  so.  I 
only  do  it  that  you  may  know  you  are  not  the  only  one  in 
l_yhis  world  who  is not  happy." 

0  Think  *U  of  you,  Catherine '    Do  anything  but  adore 


CATHERINE.  327 

you — and  mourn  your  loss  forever — if  lose  you  I  must—  on. 
Heaven!" 

"  This  life  is  a  tragedy — for  always  that  which  is  dearest, 
is  lost  in  it,  and  it  ends  in  death.  The  closing  scene  is  th' 
corpse,  the  shroud,  the  coffin — and  the  curtain  drops  upon 
the  grave — all  beyond  is  hidden — except  to  the  eye  of  faith. 
My  experience  of  life  has  been  all  darkness,  clouds  and  storm 
— and  the  transient  gleams  of  gladness  or  of  hope  have  been 
—  not  like  the  sunshine,  but  like  the  lightning.  Yet  through 
all  the  grief,  and  gloom,  and  the  tempting  doubt,  the  « still, 
small  voice '  of  God's  spirit  has  spoken  to  niy  soul,  and  com 
forted  me." 

"  Oh,  Catherine,  my  child  !  that  I  could  make  your  life  all 
eunshine — that  you  would  let  me  try — I  do  believe  I  could 
make  you  happy." 

Catherine  shook  her  head,  slowly,  with  a  sad  smile,  say 
ing— 

"  We  all  believe  that !  We  all  think  that  in  us  only  is  vested 
the  power  of  making  those  we  love  happy.  It  is  because  we 
know  that  we  are  willing,  anxicus  to  do  more  for  them  than 
any  other  person  would  !  It  is  a  fond  error.  Our  efforts — 
our  greatest  sacrifices  are  often  needless,  as  we  ourselves  are 
nothing  to  our  gods  of  flesh." 

"  Am  I  nothing — nothing  to  you,  then  ?" 

"  You  are  my  dear  and  honored  friend." 

"  Oh,  Catherine,  I  could  make  your  life  happy !  Nay, 
but  do  not  look  incredulous — I  know  I  could.  My  love  is 
not  selfish,  like  that  of  most  other  men.  It  is  perfectly  dis 
interested.  It  only  asks  to  serve  you.  It  only  desires  to  ace 
you  at  ease.  Dear  Kate,  you  have  told  me  all  on  your  heart 
— you  might  lay  that  heart,  with  all  its  burden  of  unrequited 
affection,  upon  my  bosom,  and  I  would  comfort,  and  cherish, 
and  sustain  it,  until  I  should  win  its  love  all  to  myself." 

Again,  and  more  mournfully,  the  girl  shook  her  head-  • 

"  Do  not  pursue  this  subject,  Colonel  Conyers.  Dear 
fri-nd,  by  dwelling  upon  our  wild  wishes,  they  grow  to  seem 
'  jes,  and  probabilities,  and  certainties.  In  my  youth — " 

6*  In  'your  youth  ''  How  many  years  ago  was  that,  Cathe* 
•ine?" 

"  Strange '  -but  at  eighteen,  I  really  feel  no  longer 
young." 

"Yet  it  is  not  winter,  but  a  wintry  spring,  that  chills 
your  young  life.  That  is  not  uncommon.  Spring — the  spring 


328  CATHERINE. 

of  hope,  tne  spring  of  joy,  the  spring  of  life  will  open  indeed 
by-and-by,  and  be  all  the  warmer  and  brighter  for  its  late 
ness — ancl  my  Catherine  shall  feel  younger — but  for  increase^ 
wisdom — at  twenty-five,  then  she  does  now  at  eighteen — thai 
lot  is  for  her — whosesoever  treasure  she  may  be.     But  whal 
was  she  going  to  say  happened  in  her  long  passed  youth  ?" 

Catherine  smiled,  and  said — 

"  Well,  then — when  life  was  newer  and  fresher,  believing 
— as  I  do  now — all  the  promises  of  the  Bible — and  say  ing — 
as  I  do  now — that  the  days  of  miracles  are  not  passed,  and 
never  will  be  so,  until  the  days  of  God's  omnipotence  and 
man's  faith  is  passed,  I  used  to  say  that  I  would  pray  for 
,  what  I  wanted,  though  the  granting  of  my  prayer  should 
seem  to  involve  an  impossibility.     But  now,  later  in  life,  I 
i     have  learned  a  better  lesson  still,  from  the  example  of  my 
Master.     He  might  have  saved  Himself  by  a  miracle,  but  He 
]    chose  rather  to  endure  the  cross  and  the  shame,  for  the  work- 
\    ing  out  of  His  Father's  will  and  purpose.     God  has  a  pur 
pose  and  a  will  in  every — the  humblest  life.     And  now,  for 
all  other  vain  and  childish  petitions,  I  substitute  the  words 
of  the  Saviour—'  Not  My  will — but  Thine,  be  done.'  " 

"  Catherine,  you  must  be  happy,  even  in  this  world.  You 
are  so  good.  You  must  be  made  happy  in  the  end." 

"  Ah,  I  should  be  sorry  to  set  up  the  plea  of  goodness — 
when  I  see  so  many  people  so  much  better  than  1  am,  suffer 
so  deeply.  It  is  too  often  represented  that  goodness  is  re 
warded  in  this  world — but,  oh  !  how  can  any  one  remember 
the  life  and  death  of  a  thousand  martyrs,  and  the  crucifixion 
of  the  Saviour,  and  not  feel  that  it  is  not  so — and  not  feel 
that  the  reverse  is  often  so !" 

r*"  Oh,  Catherine,  that  is  a  very  gloomy  doctrine,  and  I  will 
not  believ3  it !  There  is  a  hopeful  text  of  Scripture  that 
comes  into  my  mind — *  Godliness  is  profitable  in  all  things, 
having  the  promise  of  the  life  that  now  z's,  and  that  which  is 
to  coinc.'^  It  is  the  clouds  of  your  wintry  spring  that  make 
everything  look  so  gloomy  to  you  !" 

"  It  is  not  a  gloomy  doctrine  !  Oh,  no  !  not  gloomy,  by 
all  the  hope  and  illumining  of  the  glorious  Resurrection  and 
Ascension." 


WINTER     EVENINGS     AT     THE     FARM.      329 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 


WINTER  EVENINGS  AT  THE  FARM. 


Oh,  Winter,  ruler  of  ff.e  inverted  year, 

I  love  ihee,  all  unlovely  as  thoti  seemest, 

And  dreaded  as  thou  art. 

I  crown  thee  king-  of  intimate  delight*. 

Fire-side  enjoyments,  homestead  happiness, 

And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 

Of  undisturbed  retirement,  and  the  hours 

Of  long,  uninterrupted  evening,  know. — COWPIH. 

CATHERINE  returned  to  Hardbargain  on  Christmas  Eve. 
It  was  a  clear,  cold,  crisp  afternoon,  and  the  level  sun  threw 
a  glistening,  yellow  lustre,  like  powdered  gold  dust,  o\er  the 
crusted  surface  of  the  snow-clad  earth  And  as  Kate's  little, 
rough-coated  pony  stepped  freely  out  over  the  ground,  life 
and  hope  and  joy  tided  back  to  her  heart,  giving  bloom  to 
her  cheeks,  light  to  her  eyes,  and  elasticity  to  all  her  mo 
tions.  She  was  very  glad  indeed  to  find  herself  on  her  way 
to  the  farm,  and  about  to  exchange  the  feverish,  exciting 
atmosphere  of  White  Cliffs,  and  the  disturbing  proximity  of 
Georgia,  for  the  long,  calm  days,  and  long,  calm  evenings 
with  Mrs.  Clifton,  at  the  farm-house.  She  reached  her  des 
tination  at  dusk.  Mrs.  Clifton  met  the  girl  with  a  smile  of 
pleasure,  and  welcomed  her  with  a  kiss  of  affection.  Then 
she  conducted  her  into  the  parlor,  where  she  made  her  sit 
down  by  the  fire,  while  she  removed  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 
Next  she  summoned  Henny,  and  gave  orders  that  tea  should 
be  served  immediately,  and  a  fire  kindled  in  Miss  Catherine's 
room,  as  tho  young  lady  was  fatigued,  and  would  wish  to 
retire  early.  There  was  in  the  manner  of  the  lady  upon 
this  evening,  and  from  this  evening,  a  maternal  tenderness 
and  solicitude,  vory  soothing  and  delightful  to  Catherine. 
This  was  so  apparent  to  the  domestics,  that  they  began  to 
deport  themselves  towards  the  maiden  with  the  deference 
due  to  the  daughter  of  the  house. 

And  how  calmly  and  cheerfully  the  winter  days  passed 


330  WINTER    EVENINGS    AT    THE     FARM. 

There  was  the  early  rising,  and  the  early  breakfast,  in  tho 
warm,  bright,  back  parlor,  where  the  morning  sun  shone  in 
There  was  the  leisurely  talk  over  the  meal,  about  the  occu 
pations,  which  were  also  the  amusements  of  the  day.  Afte? 
breakfast,  came  the  ride  around  the  farm,  in  the  course  of 
which  every  field  and  barn  and  granary  was  inspected,  and 
every  negro  quarter  visited.  And  during  these  rides,  Mrs 
Clifton  gave  Catherine  much  information  relating  to  agricul 
tural  matters. 

"  For,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  some  day  you  may  be  a 
planter's  wife,  and  have  all  these  things  to  look  after,  while 
your  husband  is  in  the  public  service,  absent  with  his  regi 
ment,  or  at  the  legislature."  To  which  Catherine  ventured 
no  reply.  And  then  came  dinner,  and  the  short  afternoon 
nap,  and  tea,  and  the  long,  serene  evening  by  the  fireside, 
employed  in  needle-work,  enlivened  by  rational,  cheerful 
conversation,  and  occasionally  varied  by  music  or  reading, 
and  finally  ended  by  family  prayer  and  bed. 

Mrs.  Clifton  and  Catherine  never,  never  wearied  of 
each  other.  They  had  many  occupations  for  hands  and 
heads — they  were  both  strong,  original  thinkers,  arid  above 
•all,  were  both  deeply  interested  in  the  same  being — the 
absentee. 

And  now  Catherine  enjoyed  a  very  dear,  but  dangerous 
delight,  in  the  perusal  of  Major  Clifton's  letters  of  travel. 
These  letters  arrived  about  two  in  a  month.  And,  ah  !  the 
evenings,  when  they  came,  were  festivals  indeed  to  the  re 
cluse  lady  and  the  maiden.  Often  when  one  was  brought  in, 
Mrs.  Clifton  reclining,  through  weakness,  upon  the  sofa, 
shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  would  say,  "  Break  the  seal 
and  read  it  to  me,  dear  Catherine."  And  Kate  would  do 
so — drawing  delicious  draughts  of  perilous  pleasure  from  the 
poetic  and  artistic  spirit  that  pervaded  every  sentiment,  nar 
rative  and  description  in  the  epistle.  And  on  these  long, 
quiet  winter  evenings,  very  often  the  conversation  turned 
upon  the  absent  son — the  dear  topic  always  introduced  by 
liis  mother.  It  seemed  as  if  Mrs.  Clifton  wished  to  make 
Catherine  thoroughly  acquainted  with  his  character  and  dis 
position — with  his  faults  and  weaknesses,  as  well  as  with  his 
virtues  and  powers. 

"My  son  has  his  serious  imperfections,  like  other  men,  of 
course — though  your  eyes  contradict  me,  Catherine ;  if  I, 
his  partial  mother,  see  them,  they  exist,  you  may  depend 


EVENINGS     AT     THE     FARM.      3ol 

Archer  is  no  demigod,  my  dear,  m  the  estimation  of  an**  \ 
one,  but — well,  no  matter — don't  blush  so — I  am  his  mother,  , 
and  I  lovo  him,  to~>,  and  think  highly  of  him,  of  course,  but 
I  ai  knowledge  he  is  no  angel,  Kate,  and  I  should  be  sorry 
you  should  take  him  for  one — disappointment  would  como 
of  it,  my  dear.  He  is  proud,  jealous,  and  suspicious  as  a 
Spaniard,  and  while  under  the  influence  of  these  feelings,  ho 
is  reserved  and  sullen  as  an  Indian — yet  these  faults  of  cha 
racter  have  been  so  transfigured  in  my  dear  Kate's  affection, 
that  they  have  actually  seemed  virtues — the  pride,  jealousy 
and  suspicion  have  seemed  high  sense  of  honor  and  intellectual 
Acumen — and  the  reserve  and  sullenuess — dignity!  Is  it  not 
so,  my  dear  ?" 

Kate's  eyes  lighted,  and  her  cheeks  flushed  highly,  but 
not  with  bashfulness — with  an  emotion  that  was  swelling  at 
her  heart — and  carried  away  from  self-consciousness  by  en 
thusiasm,  she  answered — 

"  Oh,  madam !  I  know  what  I  would  say  to  you,  if  I  only 
knew  how  to  say  it.  Heaven  sends  divine  thoughts  and 
feelings  into  my  heart  and  brain  sometimes,  but  they  cannot 
pass  thence  into  words — they  are  choked  up  perhaps  by  sin 
or  imperfection.  Such  a  feeling  I  have  now — heavenly  light, 
if  I  could  only  refract  it — "  She  paused  an  instant,  uncon 
scious  that  the  lady  was  looking  intently  upon  her.  Then 
she  spoke  again,  slowly,  in  a  kind  of  calm  fervor — "  Heal 
affection — I  do  not  mean  passion  or  imagination — but  real  ' 
love  does  never  invest  its  object  with  unreal  virtues ! — 
never ! — all  faults  are  the  excess  or  the  deficiency  of  some 
virtue — well,  real  love  sees  its  object  not  perhaps  as  he  is  at 
his  worst — not  even  perhaps  so  evil  as  he  is  even  at  his  best, 
but  as  he  may  become ! — as  he  surely  will  become,  if  that 
real  affection  continues  faithful  to  its  trust.  Ah !  how 
strong  that  conviction  i?  ic  my  heart — how  weak  upon  my 
lips!" 

"  I  understand  you.  Catherine,  and  may  your  true  affection 
be  the  divine  alchemy  that  shall  transmute  all  Archer  Clif 
ton's  faults  into  virtues."  At  this  personal  reply,  Catherine's 
eyes  fell  and  her  cheeks  burned  with  sudden  self-recollection, 
and  for  weeks  after  this  she  could  not  recall  the  conversation 
without  deep  blushes. 

More  and  more  freely  as  the  weeks  passed  by  did  Mrs. 
Clifton  talk  to  Kate  of  her  «on  and  his  peculiarities,  and  the 
best  way  to  meet  them. 


332  WINTER    EVENINGS    AT    THE    FARM. 

'*  You  know,  my  dear  Catherine,  tie  apostle,  in  order  to 
win  j-roselytes,  made  himself  all  things  to  all  men.  Archei 
is  proud,  and  my  dear  girl  must  raise  herself  a  little  out  o* 
that  humility  of  manner  which  is  very  distasteful  to  the 
haughty,  except  when  exhibited  towards  themselves,  when 
t  naturally  becomes  very  acceptable."  This  style  of  con 
versation,  addressed  to  her  for  weeks  and  months,  was  at 
once  very  pleasing  and  very  painful  to  Kate.  It  was  sweet, 
it  was  dear  beyond  measure,  to  be  considered  in  this  near 
relation  to  her  beloved,  to  be  addressed  daily  and  hourly  as 
if  she  possessed  the  power  of  rendering  his  future  life  better 
and  happier,  and  so  addressed  by  his  own  mother,  too,  but  it 
was  also  humiliating  to  be  supposed  to  presume  on  the  future 
esteem  and  affection  of  one  who  had  never  addressed  the  Ian- 
guage  of  love  to  her.  Often  she  thought  of  begging  Mrs./ 
Clifton  to  desist  from  this  style  of  conversation ;  but  a  cer 
tain  bashfulness,  a  deep  respect  for  the  lady,  a  distrust  of 
herself  and  of  her  own  experience,  and  the  childish  thought 
that  Major  Clifton  might  have  entrusted  to  his  mother  an  in 
tention  that  he  never  confided  to  herself  its  object,  and  the 
delight  of  living  in  this  blessed  illusion,  and  the  fear  of 
breaking  the  charm,  kept  her  silent  for  a  long  time,  during 
which  Mrs.  Clifton  gradually  fell  into  the  manner  of  con 
sidering  her  and  speaking  to  her  as  her  son's  future  wife. 
All  at  once  one  day  it  suddenly  struck  Kate  that  Mrs.  Clif 
ton  might  bo  the  victim  of  a  mistake,  and  under  the  impres 
sion  that  some  understanding  or  engagement  existed  between 
herself  and  Major  Clifton,  and  that  her  own  silence  and 
seeming  acquiesence  had  served  to  confirm  this  error.  And 
this  very  natural  and  rational  thought  fell  upon  the  girl  like 
a  thunderbolt,  utterly  blasting  and  destroying  all  her  beau 
tiful  hopes,  and  covering  her  face  with  the  blushes  of  deep 
humiliation.  She  felt  that  she  must  undeceive  Mrs.  Clifton 
immediately.  So  when  they  sat  together  at  the  work-table* 
before  the  evening  fire,  and  the  lady  spoke  of  her  sen.  say 
ing,  among  other  things — 

"  The  most  unhappy  trait  in  his  character  is  his  tendency 
to  suspicion,  my  love.  Be  straight- forward  with  him,  Cathe 
rine,  never  have  a  secret  from  him,  not  even  one  touching  a 
little  pleasant  surprise,  be  perfectly  frank  and  open-hearted 
with  him,  and,  alas  !  even  that  course  may  not  always  save 
you  from  suffering  by  his  besetting  sin,  and  when  it  does  not, 
Catherine,  there  is  nothing  left  far  you  but  patience  and 


WINTER     EVENINGS     AT     THE     FARM.      333 

trust.  You  see,  on  Archer's  behalf,  I  expect  a  great  deal 
of  you,  my  love,  like  all  mothers-in-law,  I  suppose?' 

Catherine's  face  was  bent  over  her  work ;  ashamed  of  her 
supposed  mistake,  ashamed  of  the  weakness  that  now  choked 
her  voice,  she  remained  silent  for  some  time.  At  length, 
gathering  a  false  impression  from  her  long  continued  silence, 
Mrs.  Clifton  said —  . 

"  Do  I  hope  too  much  from  you,  Kate,  my  love  ?" 

With  an  effort,  Catherine  controlled  her  emotion,  looked 
up  and  replied,  steadily — 

"  No,  no,  dear  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  do  not  demand  too  much 
of  me.  As  far  as  my  will  and  my  power,  as  far  as  the  grace 
of  God  aids  me,  I  will  serve  Major  Clifton  with  the  affection 
and  fidelity  of  a  sister  and  a  servant,  but  I  have  not  the 
smallest  reason  to  suppose  that  he  will  ever  admit  me  to  a 
friendship  sufficiently  intimate  to  make  it  possible  for  me  to 
affect  his  character  and  conduct  in  any  way,  even  if  I  should 
presume  to  wish  it." 

"  My  dear  Kate,  Archer's  wife  will  be  his  friend,  com 
panion  and  counsellor — he  never  would  be  happy  with  a  mere 
housekeeper  or  parlor  ornament,  however  beautifully  accom 
plished  and  amiable — it  is  therefore  he  will  prize  my  dear 
Catherine's  clear,  strong  mind  and  proud  heart — she  will  be 
admitted  to  his  closest  thoughts  arid  his  noblest  counsels,  do 
not  doubt  it." 

"  Oh,  madam,  you  do  not  comprehend  me  yet,  I  see.  How 
deeply  rooted  your  mistake  must  be,  dear  lady !  Oh,  how 
shall  I  tell  you  ?  Indeed  you  are  in  error  if  you  suppose — 
if  you  suppose  that — "  Kate  stopped  short  and  burst  into 
tears. 

Mrs.  Clifton  encircled  her  waist  with  her  arm,  and 
said — 

"  Come,  Kate,  stop  all  this  blushing  and  weeping.  Let 
us  be  confidential,  you  and  I,  as  mother  and  daughter  should 
be,  for  you  are  as  my  own  daughter,  Kate,  and  am  I  not  a 
mother  to  you  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!  yes!  dear  lady!"  said  Catherine,  taking  her 
hand,  and  pressing  it  to  her  bosom,  and  covering  it  with 
kisses.  "  Oh,  yes,  you  arc  indeed  like  a  mother  to  me,  if  J 
were  only  worthy  to  be  your  daughter !  and  I  love  and  honor 
you  more  than  ever  a  mother  was  loved  and  honored  in  this 
»orld  before,  I  do  believe !" 

"Then  let  tkfre  be  no  reserve  between  us,  dear  Kate. 
21 


334  WINTER    EVENINGS    AT    THE    FARM. 

Let  us  be  open  with  each  other,  as  parent  and  child,  whoso 
loves,  and  hopes,  and  wishes  are  the  same.  I  have  been 
plain  with  you  all  along,  only  gradually  unfolding  your 
future,  not  to  alarm  your  shyness — and  to  win  your  confi 
dence.  I  have  longed  for  this  confidence — this  perfect  open 
ness  between  us — that  we  might  talk  with  more  intelligence, 
and  with  more  comfort — and  I  have  courted  it  by  my  own 
frankness ;  but  in  return  for  all  my  candor,  Catherine  has 
shown  me  only  reserve  and  blushes.  Will  she  be  more  con- 
fiiing  now  ?" 

"  Alas,  dearest  lady,  what  can  I  say  to  you,  but  that  you 
are  greatly  mistaken — sadly  mistaken — oh,  yes,  indeed,  sadly 
mistaken,"  replied  Kate,  almost  weeping  again. 

"  I  am  not  mistaken  in  supposing  that  Catherine  loves  my 
son.  I  am  not  mistaken  in  knowing  that  the  fact  gives  mo 
more  happiness  than  anytning  else  in  the  world.  Yet  I  would 
like  to  hear  Kate  admit  it." 

"  Wellr  dearest  lady — yes  ! — down,  pride  ! — if  it  will  give 
you  any  pleasure  to  hear  it,  I  must  not  withhold  the  confes 
sion — yes,  I  do  love  your  son — so  much — so  much — that  it 
will  make  me  an  old  maid  !" 

Mrs.  Clifton  laughed,  a  little,  low,  jolly  laugh.  (The  lady 
very  seldom  laughed,  and  when  she  did,  it  had  a  strange,  ex 
ceedingly  pleasant  effect  upon  the  hearer — it  was  a  very 
agreeable  surprise,  revealing,  as  it  were  under  that  grave, 
stern  surface,  traces  of  a  mine  of  wit,  humor,  fun  and  mis 
chief,  that  must  have  existed,  and  frequently  sparkled  forth, 
ere  the  sorrow  and  the  seriousness  of  life  smothered  and  ex 
tinguished  it.)  She  laughed  her  little,  low,  jolly  laugh,  and 
replied — 

"  That  were  a  strange  effect  of  love,  Catherine  ;  but  trust 
me,  it  will  not  be  so  with  Archer's  consent." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Clifton,  forgive  me  for  saying  again,  that  you 
are  very  much  mistaken — never,  never  in  his  life,  has  Major 
Tlifton  bestowed  upon  me  one  word,  or  look,  that  might  be 
misconstrued  by  the  vainest  woman  into  a  preference  !" 

"  Well,  Kate  !  I  know  that !  I  know  that  he  has  never 
addressed  you  on  the  subject.  But  1  know  that  he  will  do 
go.  For  he  loves  you,  Catherine,  and  has  loved  you  from  the 
first  hour  he  ever  saw  you — even  from  the — the  night  he  sat 
and  studied  you  in  your  brother's  cabin.  And  it  is  just  as 
certain  that  you  will  be  his  wife,  as  that  you  both  will  live  to 
nvury.  So,  dearest,  let  there  be  no  more  reserve  between 


WINTER     EVENINGS     AT     THE     FARM.      335 

us— consider  this  marriage  sure,  as  it  really  is — (so  far  as  any 
future  event  is  sure)— and  let  me  talk  freely,  for  my  time  and 
opportunity  is  short." 

Catherine  raised  her  eyes  to  the  sallow — almost  cadaverous 
face  of  the  lady,  and  a  conviction  of  the  truth  and  reality 
of  what  she  predicted,  forced  itself  upon  her,  with  a  sharp 
pang. 

"  Now,  dear  Catherine,  I  did  not  ask  you  for  that  troubled 
look  !  Will  your  heart  ache  because  a  dry  leaf  drops  in  the 
autumn,  rather  than  hangs  shivering  on  the  tree  through  half 
the  winter?  But,  dear  child,  I  allude  to  this  coming  event, 
not  to  cast  its  '  shadow'  over  you,  but  to  explain  why  I  wish 
now  to  use  these  days  in  making  you  as  conversant  with  tho 
idiosyncracies  of  your  future  companion,  as  only  years  of 
married  life  could  do,  and  to  prevent  years,  perhaps,  of  mis 
understanding  and  sorrow.  There  is  something  dreadful  in 
the  discovery  of  unsuspected  faults,  after  marriage — and 
something  very,  very  mournful  in  the  disappointment  of  the 
trusting  affection,  and  in  the  saddened  efforts  of  the  hoart 
to  adjust  itself  to  the  circumstances — efforts  that  in  one  case 
out  of  ten,  perhaps,  succeed.  But  if  the  worst  is  known  be 
fore  marriage,  the  man  or  the  woman  may  consider  well 
whether  they  have  the  strength  of  heart  to  conquer  their  own 
faults,  and  bear  with  those  of  their  companion.  That  you 
would  do  all  this  for  your  husband,  Kate,  I  am  convinced, 
I  only  talk  now  to  smooth  your 'path  of  duty."  The  lady 
here  released  Catherine  from  the  embrace  in  which  she  had 
held  her  through  this  conversation,  and  desired  her  to  ring 
for  the  servants  to  come  in  to  prayers. 

Catherine,  as  had  been  her  custom  for  several  weeks  past— 
upon   account  of  Mrs.  Clifton's    weakness — conducted  the 
evening  devotions. 

When  prayers  were  over,  and  the  servants  dismissed, 
Catherine  attended  Mrs.  Clifton  to  her  chamber,  and  assisted 
her  with  affectionate  care  until  she  had  retired  to  bed.  Then, 
after  receiving  the  lady's  parting  kiss,  she  hastened  into  her 
own  chamber,  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  and  gare  way  to 
a  long-pent  burst  of  sorrow.  Within  the  last  three  years 
Catherine  had  seen  much  sickness,  death,  and  bereavement 
— one  after  another  of  her  associates  or  relations  had  faded 
and  fallen,  and  she  had  mourned  their  loss  ;  and  her  life  had 
taken  a  sombre  hue,  and  sunken  into  a  depressed  tone.  But 
that  this  bel  ^ed  friend,  this  kind  benefactress,  this  dear, 


336  WINTER    EVENINGS    AT    THE     FARM. 

dear  companion — this  more  than  mother,  sister,  nil  to  he/ 
heart — should  pass  away  from  the  earth  and  be  seen  no  more  ' 
Oh  !  it  brought  a  sense  of  desolation  that  threw  a  shadow  and 
a  chill  over  all  the  future — over  even  the  bright  hopes  shining 
in  the  distance.  And  then  the  identity  of  the  love  she  bore 
mother  and  son  together  forced  itself  upon  her  heart.  And 
she  felt  that  a  union  with  the  son  could  not  give  her  perfect 
content,  unless  the  mother  were  there  to  share  her  love  and 
service,  and  to  participate  in  their  happiness.  Without  that 
mother's  presence,  their  plan  of  life  would  be  unfinished — 
their  circle  of  love  incomplete.  And  oh  !  came  the  sharp, 
agonizing  question,  how  could  she  ever  bear  to  lose  the  light, 
and  warmth,  and  strength,  imparted  daily,  hourly,  from  that 
dear  face — that  face  which  had  never  looked  on  her  but  in 
affection — that  face,  the  very  image  of  Clifton's  own,  except 
that  it  was  sweeter,  holier,  and  never,  never  harsh — how 
could  she  ever  bear  to  lose  her  sweet  resting  place  on  that 
more  than  maternal  bosom — that  bosom  on  which  she  could 
ever  lay  her  aching  head,  or  aching  heart,  in  perfect  peace 
and  confidence,  sure  of  being  understood,  sure  of  being  sym 
pathized  with  ?  Oh  !  life  would  be  darkened  indeed  when 
she  should  pass  away.  The  sense  of  sorrow  was  so  sharp,  so 
agonizing,  that  the  girl  could  have  thrown  herself  upon  the 
floor — could  have  wrestled  with  Heaven,  in  wild  prayer,  that 
this  life  might  be  saved,  and  this  sharp  anguish  spared  her. 
But  Catherine  was  habitually  self-restrained,  and  she  bore 
this  mental  anguish  as  she  would  have  endured  severe  physi 
cal  pain — in  silence,  in  patience,  until  her  soul  was  subdued 
to  the  meekness  of  resignation.  And  then  prayer  brought 
comfort. 

And  she  met  the  lady  in  the  morning  with  a  cheerful  coun 
tenancc.     And  they  spent  the  day  as  usual. 

So  passed  the  winter  and  the  spring.  Though  Mrs.  Clif 
ton  failed  visibly  from  day  to  day,  she  still  continued  her 
rides  around  the  farm,  and  her  general  supervision  of  the 
household  and  of  agricultural  affairs,  and  her  instructions  t ) 
Catherine.  Her  people,  who  well  knew  the  nearly  hopoless 
Btate  of  her  health,  foretold  that  their  mistress  would  keep 
up  and  out  to  the  very  last — and  finally  die  in  her  chair. 
Indeed,  while  flesh  and  blood  wasted  away,  her  nervous  en 
ergy  seemed  unimpaired,  and  her,  cheerfulness  was  undmiin- 
ished.  She  talked  of  her  approaching  departure  as  calmly 
and  ^leasantly  as  she  would  have  talked  of  going  to  llich- 


WINTER  EVENINGS  AT  THE  FARM.   337 

mend.     Never  obtruding  the  subject,  however,  unless  neces 
sity  demanded  its  introduction. 

The  serenity  and  cheerfulness  of  the  lady  affected  Cathe- 
erine  very  beneficially — "  familiarizing"  to  her  feelings  the 
future,  immortal  life.  Catherine  endeavored  to  persuade  her 
to  have  a  physician. 

"  Why,  so  I  would,  Kate,  if  I  had  any  specific  disease;  but 
when  all  the  frame  is  wearing  out  together  very  slowly  and 
quietly,  why  call  in  a  doctor  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  natu 
ral  decay,  and  painfully  build  up  one  portion  of  the  sinking 
frame  at  the  expense  of  another  ?  Why  not  fade  and  fall 
easily,  as  all  else  in  benign  nature  does  ?" 

Catherine  next  suggested  writing  for  Major  Clifton  to 
hasten  home. 

"  Why,  my  child  ?  Why,  because  I  am  going  the  common 
road,  should  others  be  hurried  and  worried  ?  Everything  in 
blessed  nature  and  Divine  Revelation  teaches  us  a  sweeter 
lesson.  No — Archer  set  out  for  a  twelve  months'  tour  ;  let 
him  complete  it.  He  will  return  this  autumn.  Quite  time 
enough,  Catherine.  I  shall  live  till  then,  and  longer.  I  can 
calculate  the  progress  of  my  body's  failing,  and  the  duration 
of  my  life,  with  almost  mathematical  precision.  I  shall  live 
to  meet  Archer,  and  to  see  you  married,  Catherine — and  tc 
leave  you  willing  to  survive  me  arid  be  happy  without  me. 
And  why  not,  dear  1  for  shall  I  not  be  happier  still ?" 

And  so,  in  sweet  mutual  confidence,  in  cheerful  resigna 
tion,  and  in  patient  hop,  the  summer  passed,  a^ 
arrived  in  its  glory. 


THE      RETURN. 


CHAPTER  XXIX, 

THE   RETURN. 


Costie  home  !— there  19  a  sorrowing  breath 

In  music  since  ye  went, 
And  fragrant  flower  scents  wander  by 

Will)  mournful  memories  b'ent. 
The  tones  of  every  household  voice 

Are  grown,  more  sad  and  deep — 
And  longing  for  thee  wakes  a  wish 

To  turn  aside  and  weep. 

Oh,  ye  beloved!  come  home! — the  hory 

Of  many  a  greeting  tone, 
The  time  of  hearth-light  si-.id  of  song 

Returns  and  ye  are  gone  ! 
And  darkly,  heavily  it  falls 

On  the  forsaken  room, 
Burdening  the  heart  with  tenderr.e,r 

That  deepens  into  gloom. — Mflj   t  •  /  -NS. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  all  her  hab:.t'r/  'dimness  and  cheerful 
pntier'je,  Mrs.  Clifton  began  to  £rvv  j.neasy  at  her  son's  pro 
tracted  stay.  He  had  been  abse\*  «,  year  and  a  month.  And 
even  PO^,  instead  of  setting  ont  m  his  return,  he  only  wrote 
of  co'p'iFg  home  soon.  At  rrv  lime  he  was  at  Vienna,  at 
ano'b'j  at  Berlin,  then  at  the  Hague,  progressing,  indeed, 
but  voiy,  very  slowly  tc/rpr  )'i  England  and  Liverpool,  from 
which  port  he  intended  to  ^abark.  Every  letter  that  came 
irom  him  at  this  period  v  ?$  opened  and  read  with  visible  un 
easiness  by  his  mother.  At  length  the  glad  tidings  came,  a 
letter  from  the  mid-o'y  #'j,  brought  by  a  swift  sailing  packet- 
boat  that  had  epoV.r.  *Ae  vessel  in  which  he  had  embarked. 
He  was  hasten? J 7  ^r.me,  and  might  now  be  expected  at  any 
hour.  The  iK.73  r obtained  in  his  letter  excited  the  invalid  so 
much  upon  *b3  Mining  of  its  reception,  that'  she  passed  a 
sleepless  n;ght,  ^id  rose  the  next  morning  weaker  than  she 
had  ever  br,eri  'j  /ore  ;  so  weak,  indeed,  that  she  was  obliged, 
in  coming  djvn  stairs,  to  lean  on  the  arms  of  Catherine  and 
her  ruaid  for  suppor*.  And  when  she  reached  the  parlor. 


THE     RETURN.  389 

she  was  compelled  to  recline  in  an  easy-chair,  propped  up  hy 
pillows,  and  with  her  feet  supported  by  a  foot-cushion.  But 
her  cheerfulness  was  undiminished.  *She  gave  many  direc 
tions  as  to  the  adjustment  and  adornment  of  the  room,  and 
the  preparation  of  certain  dainties.  Lastly  she  called  Cathe 
rine  to  her  side,  and  took  her  hand.  Catherine  did  not  ap 
pear  to  the  best  advantage,  with  her  plain,  dark  ginjrhani 
dress,  and  her  chestnut  hair  divided  simply  above  her  fore 
head,  rippling  in  tiny  wavelets  around  her  broad  temples,  and 
gathered  into  a  twist  behind.  This  plainness  of  style  did  not 
become  her  strongly  marked  features.  And  the  lady  saw  it, 
for  she  gazed  thoughtfully  upon  the  girl  awhile,  and  then 
lifting  her  hand,  disengaged  a  portion  of  her  tresses  from  the 
comb,  and  let  them  fall,  turning  into  natural  ringlets  down 
fter  cheeks,  saying — 

"  There,  Catherine,  when  hair  curls  naturally  and  volun 
tarily,  it  is  certain  that  the  face  it  belongs  to  requires  it  so, 
and  that  it  should  be  permitted  to  follow  its  nature,  for  na 
ture  does  all  things  well.  Why  don't  you  always  wear  your 
cair  so  ?  It  is  so  much  prettier." 

<c  Because,  dear  lady,  I  never  thought  it  of  any  importance 
now  my  hair  was  fixed,  so  that  it  looked  neat.  But  I  will 
wear  it  this  way,  if  it  pleases  you." 

t{  It  does.  Your  face  is  not  a  classic  one,  dear  Kate,  and 
none  but  a  classic  face  can  bear  that  attic  symplicity  of  style. 
Your  countenance  is  a  very  noble  one,  Kate,  but  its  very 
nobility  is  hard  and  stern,  without  the  softening  shadow  of 
these  ringlets  nature  has  bestowed  upon  you.  There  now, 
look  in  the  mirror,  my  little  Oliver  Cromwell,  your  face  is 
much  more  womanly  than  before." 

Catherine  found  it  so.  The  soft,  bright,  drooping  curls 
shaded  and  rounded  her  large,  square  forehead  into  beautiful 
proportion  to  her  other  features,  and  softened  the  expression 
of  the  whole.  No  girl  but  is  pleased  to  see  herself  improved 
in  beauty,  and  it  was  with  a  bright  blush,  half  of  pleasure, 
half  of  modesty,  that  the  maiden  returned  to  the  lady's  side. 
"  Now,  dear  Kate,  you  must  leave  off  that  dingy  gingham, 
and  wear  white  wrappers  in  the  morning.  It  is  early  in  the 
season,  and  you  can  wear  white  a  month  longer  yet,  and  by 
the  end  of  that  time,  I  suppose,  the  world  will  expect  you  .c 
wear  black.  You  have  no  white  wrappers  though,  my  dear  t" 
"  No,  madam,  I  never  had  one." 
•'  Well,  you  have  two  white  cambric  dresses,  without  orna- 


340  THE      RETURN. 

went,  they  will  do  for  morning  dresses.  Do  me  the  kiudnes.1 
to  wear  them.  Nay,  now,  Catherine,  my  dear,  no  hesitation, 
I  will  have  it  so.  Go  at  once  and  put  on  one  of  them." 

Kate  complied,  and  in  a  short  time  returned  to  the  parloi 
— by  this  change  in  the  style  of  her  toilet,  almost  trans 
figured,  yet  without  the  loss  of  her  noble  characteristics. 
One  thought  troubled  the  maiden,  the  question  • — "What 
would  Clifton  think  of  this  ?  How  would  he  take  it  ?  Would 
he  suspect  that  she  had  dressed  for  his  eyes  1  If  ]\ ;  did  his 
suspicions  would  be  well-founded.  And  the  consciousness  of 
this  truth,  suffused  with  blushes  the  cheeks  of  the  ingenuous 
girl,  and  heightened  all  her  beauty. 

There  was  no  certainty  of  Major  Clifton's  advent  that  day 
— he  might  come  any  day,  but  nevertheless  they  hoped  for 
and  expected  his  arrival.  By  a  change  in  the  hours,  the 

stage  now  reached  L at  noon.     And  Mrs.  Clifton  had 

ordered  dinner  in  the  full  expectation  of  having  her  son's 
company  at  that  meal.  Nor  were  their  hopes  destined  to 
disappointment.  A  little  after  one  o'clock,  the  carriage  that 

had  been  sent  to  L to  meet  the  stage,  returned  and 

drove  up  to  the  door.  And  Archer  Clifton  alighted  from  it, 
and  hastened  joyfully  into  the  house.  Mrs.  Clifton  arose  to 
meet  him,  but,  overpowered  by  agitation  and  weakness,  she 
sank  back  into  her  seat.  Her  son  was  before  her  in  an 
instant,  and  had  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressed 'her  to 
his  breast,  and  kissed  her  fondly  many  times,  and  sat  her 
back  in  her  chair  to  feast  his  eyes  upon  her  beloved  face  and 
form,  before  he  noticed  how  cadaverous,  how  death- like,  she 
looked  ;  then  a  startled  expression  of  surprise  and  alarm 
sprung  into  his  countenance,  and  he  turned  upon  Kate,  to 
whom  he  had  not  yet  spoken,  a  glance  of  mingled  inquiry, 
anger  and  reproach.  V  \ 

"  You  find  me  in  poor  health,  Archer;  but  not  worse,  my 
*on,  than  what  might  have  been  expected." 

"  My  dearest  mother,"  he  began,  but  his  voice  choked,  and 
to  conceal  the  emotion  he  could  not  entirely  suppress,  ha 
turned  to  Catherine  and  gave  her  a  brother's  greeting  in  si 
lence,  but  at  the  same  time  darting  into  her  eyes  a  look  of 
stem  rebuke  from  his  own,  which  seemed  to  say,  "  You,  at 
least,  should  have  written  and  informed  rue  of  this."  And 
*.he  suspicions  excited  by  Mrs.  Georgia  rose  darkly  in  his 
mind,  but  were  repressed  again  instantly. 

<4  Dearest  Archer,  I  am  not  usually  so  ill  as  I  seem  to 


THE     RETURN-. 

day.  I  have  never  been  confined  to  my  bed,  or  even  my 
chair  yet.  Only  to-day  and  yesterday,  the  joy  of  looking  for 
yen  has  prevented  my  taking  the  usual  quantity  of  slceo.  I 
shall  be  much  better  to-morrow.  Sit  down  by  me  and  rest 
and  when  you  are  rested,  your  room  is  quite  ready  for  you. 
if  you  wish  to  change  your  dress  before  dinner.  Catherine, 
my  love,  will  you  go  and  direct  them  to  serve  dinner  ?" 

Catherine  left  the  room  and  gave  the  necessary  commands 
Then  she  ordered  a  boy  to  take  Major  Clifton's  baggage  up 
into  Ids  chamber,  and  went  up  stairs  to  show  him  where  to 
put  it.  In  the  meantime,  Major  Clifton,  in  looking  upon  his 
mother's  wasted  form,  had  lost  all  self-command,  and  savin** 
hastily  that  he  thought  he  would  change  his  traveling  dress 
at  once,  hurried  out  of  the  room  to  give  vent  to  a  passionate 
sorrow,  no  longer  to  be  restrained.  He  ran  up  stairs,  but 
paused  upon  the  first  landing.  Catherine,  in  leaving  his  room, 
foifnel  him  leaning  upon  the  balustrades,  with  his  face  buried 
in  his  hands,  weeping  convulsively.  To  women,  there  is 
something  really  appalling  in  a  man's  tears — we  look  upon 
them  with  more  than  pity — with  awe — with  something  like 
the  feeling  with  which  Mary  and  Martha  must  have  witnessed 
the  Saviour's  tears — with  deep  reverence  be  it  said.  Cathe 
rine  would  have  crept  by  and  slipped  down  stairs  quietly,  for 
she  had  a  feeling  of  self-reproach  for  having  even  seen  that 
strong  outburst  of  sorrow ;  but  he  stood  up  and  seized  her 
hand,  and  drew  her  towards  him,  exclaiming — 

"Stop,  Catherine!  You  have  seen  my  weakness!  Now, 
tell  me  why  you  did  not  write  to  me  of  this  ?  Cruel  and  selfish 
girl !  were  you  so  intent  upon  your  own  projects,  that  you 
could  not  find  time  to  indite  a  line  to  let  me  know  that  my 
mother  was  dying?" 

Another  burst  of  weeping  prevented  his  hearing  Catherine's 
gentle  explanation,  that  Mrs.  Clifton  would  not  permit  her 
to  write.  And  Kate  was  not- anxious  to  exculpate  herself 
from  an  unjust  charge ;  indeed,  after  once  giving  her  little, 
meek  explanation,  she  never  thought  of  it  again — she  only 
thought  of  his  agony  of  regret,  and  only  wished  to  sootho  it, 
lie  still  held  her  wrist,  unconsciously  straining  it  in  the 
strength  of  his  emotion,  until  it  pained  her  severely.  Hut 
she  did  not  care  for  that,  she  did  not  even  feel  it ;  L«hc  only 
cared  to  see  him  weep  so  convulsively,  and  losing  r.ll  self- 
consciousness,  and  with  it  al)  reserve,  she  threw  her  arm 


342  THE      RETURN. 

aitmnd  him,  and  dropping  her  head  against  him  most  tenderly, 
most  lovingly,  she  said — 

"  Oh,  do  not  grieve  so  !  do  not !  see  how  calm  and  cheer 
ful  she  is  !  Try  to  emulate  her  calmness  '" 

"  I  loved  hor,  Kate  !  I  loved  her  more  than  ever  son  lovod 
mother  before  !  She  was  the  worth  of  life  to  me!  I  loved 
her  more  than  ever  I  loved  human  being !  More  even  than 
I  ever  loved  you,  Kate  !" 

This  was  Clifton's  first  declaration  to  Catherine,  and  a 
strange  time,  place  and  circumstances,  and  a  strange  n;elhod 
of  expressing  his  preference  had  fallen  upon  them.  "  I  lo\ed 
her  more  than  I  ever  loved  you,  Kate  !" 

But  it  did  not  seem  strange  to  Catherine.  It  seemed  per 
fectly  natural  and  in  order.  It  did  not  startle  her  the  least. 
It  did  not  bring  back  her  womanly  self-consciousness,  for  she 
answered,  meekly — 

"  I  know  it — I  know  you  do.  And,  oh  !  don't  you  know 
that  I  would  willingly  give  my  life  for  hers,  if  I  could  restore 
her,  in  health,  to  your  affections  ?" 

"  And  yet  you  did  not  even  write  to  let  me  know  she  wa& 
ill !  Oh  !  girl !  girl !  you  were  much  to  blame  for  that !  It 
was  bitterly  wrong." 

"  I  told  you,  but  you  did  not  hear  me,  that  she  would  not 
permit  me  to  write ;  she  did  not  wish  to  give  you  pain,  or  to 
interfere  with  your  arrangements  for  the  year." 

"  Catherine,  that  does  not  excuse  you  !  Could  not  your 
own  heart  have  told  you  how  precious,  how  inestimable  to  nw 
would  have  been  every  hour  of  her  company  when  her  days 
were  numbered?  Could  you  not  have  written  to  me  se 
cretly  ?» 

"  I  never  did  anything  secretly  in  my  life.  I  should  never 
cave  thought  of  doing  so.  Besides,  I  could  not  have  had  a 
secret  from  her,  so  open,  so  frank,  so  noble  as  she  is.  No,  I 
proposed  to  write  for  you  to  come  home,  I  entreated  permis 
sion  to  do  so,  but  she  refused  to  grant  it,  and  I  deferred  to 
her  better  judgment.  I  would  not  have  deceived  her  for  tho 
world." 

"  Then  I  have  been  unjust  and  unkind  to  you,  Catherine, 
but  you  will  pardon  me  when  I  tell  you — when  you  see  byw 
thoroughly  weakened  and  unmanned  I  am  1" 

The  gust  of  sorrow  was  over,  and  Kate,  with  sudden  self- 
recollect;on  withdrew  herself  from  him,  deeply  blushing,  and 


THE     RETURN.  313 

hastened  down  stairs,  and  the  thought  of  her  trans. ent  self- 
forgetful  ness  rendered  the  girl  even  shyer  than  ever. 

Ho  went  into  his  room  and  refreshed  himself  with  a  new 
toilet.  And  when  he  entered  the  parlor,  an  hour  after,  no 
one  would  have  suspected  from  his  handsome,  animated  face, 
the  existence  of  the  sorrow  that  lay  subdued  at  the  bottom  of 
his  heart. 

They  dined  together,  and  after  dinner  Catherine  thought 
it  best  to  retire  and  leave  the  mother  and  son  alone  to  enjoy 
more  fully  their  re-union.  When  she  had  left  the  room — 

"  How  pretty  and  lady-like  Catherine  is  growing,  madam," 
said  Major  Clifton,  looking  after  her,  but  addressing  his 
mother. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Clifton,  "  lady-like,  but  not  very 
pre-tty ;  Kate  will  never  be  pretty  ;  but  if  she  be  '  blessed  to 
her  mind,'  she  will  be  more,  she  will  be  handsome." 

After  spending  a  long  afternoon  with  his  mother,  Major 
Clifton  took  temporary  leave,  and  went  over  to  White  Cliffs, 
to  pay  his  respects  to  Mrs.  Georgia.  Most  happily  for  all 
concerned,  Georgia  had  just  left  home  for  a  visit  of  some 
weeks  at  liichmond — ignorant,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  of  Major 
Clifton's  arrival.  He  returned  and  spent  the  evening  with 
the  ladies  at  Hardbargain. 

The  next  morning  found  Mrs.  Clifton  very  much  better — and 
in  the  evening  she  rode  out,  accompanied  by  Major  Clifton 
and  Catherine.  Mrs.  Clifton's  cheerfulness  infected  all  the 
party — both  upon  this  evening  and  afterwards.  Her  decline 
was  so  gradual,  so  painless,  that  she  never  took  to  her  bed — 
but  when  weakest,  sat  in  the  easy-chair  in  the  parlor,  often 
with  a  little  light  knitting  in  her  hands,  that  she  would 
leisurely  work  upon,  or  drop  into  her  lap,  to  be  resumed  at 
pleasure,  while  she  conversed  with  Catherine  and  Major 
Clifton,  or  listened  while  one  of  them  read,  or  both  sang. 
There  never  were  more  pleasant,  serene  days,  than  these  of 
the  invalid's  gentle  decay.  It  was  genial,  pensive  autumn ; 
ihe  fall  of  the  leaf  without  the  house,  and  the  fall  of  the  leaf 
within. 

Catherine  was  now  the  housekeeper.  She  had — through 
the  increasing  weakness  of  the  lady — so  gradually  sliddcn 
into  this  office,  that  she  scarcely  knew  at  what  time  its  whole 
burden  had  accumulated  upon  her.  One  morning,  while 
Catherine  was  in  the  store-room  giving  out  meal  and  bacon 
to  the  negroes,  Mrs.  Clifton  and  Major  Clifton  occupied  tho 


344  THE      RETURN. 

parlor  alone.  He  had  been  reading  to  her  from  Jeremy 
Taylor,  but  seeing  that  she  had  dropped  her  knitting,  anc 
was  sitting  back  with  a  look  of  weariness,  he  thought  it  time 
to  desist  and  close  the  bonk 

'*  JJear  mother,  you  are  fatigued  ;  will  you  have  anything  ? 
What  shall  I  bring  you?" 

"  Nothing,  my  son.  I  am  not  wearied  more  than  usual, 
and  it  will  pass  in  a  few  minutes." 

The  lady  was  silent  for  a  little  while,  during  which  Major 
Clifton  refrained  from  conversation.  And  then,  after  some 
little  thought,  she  raised  her  eyes  until  they  met  his  own 
and  looking  at  him  full  in  the  face,  she  asked — 

"  When  are  you  going  to  marry  Catherine,  Archer  ?" 

Major  Clifton  started  violently,  and  looked  at  the  lady  in 
silent  astonishment. 

"  Nay,  pray  answer  me — my  question  is  an  earnest  one." 

"  My  dear  madam,  you  have  taken  me  by  surprise  !" 

"  Necessary  bluntness,  Archer." 

"  Very  Oliver  Cromwellish,  madam,  my  mother." 

"  You  must  excuse  it,  dear  Archer.  You  did  not  open 
the  subject  to  me,  therefore,  feeling  more  anxious  upon  thai 
affair  than  any  other  on  earth,  I  am  forced  to  broach  it  to 
you.  But  you  have  not  answered  my  question  yet." 

t:  Dear  madam — what — exactly — was  it  ?" 

"  When  are  you  going  to  marry  Catherine  ?" 

"  Upon  my  honor,  my  dear  madam,  I  have  no  intention 
of  marrying  Catherine ;  nor  have  I  ever  given  her  reason  to 
suppose  so." 

"  Ah  !  I  had  thought,  or  rather,  I  had  hoped  otherwise/' 
said  the  lady,  relapsing  into  silence,  while  Major  Clifton 
subsided  into  painful  thought.  Again  the  dark  suspicions 
insinuated  by  Mrs.  Georgia,  arose  in  his  mind,  to  be  repressed 
again  with  loathing  ;  and  he  said  indignantly  to  himself — <•  It 
is  not  true  !  I  can  never  believe  her  to  be  an  intriguante. 
Georgia  is  mistaken — Georgia's  grateful  and  affectionate  in* 
terest  in  my  welfare,  leads  her  to  unjust  suspicions  of  others, 
Kate  is  noble-hearted — Kate  is  true — is  truth  itself.  It 
would  be  misery  to  believe  otherwise. 

Mrs.  Clifton  gently  interrupted  his  silent  self-comnmnir.n, 
by  saying — 

"  Well,  Archer,  since  you  have  no  intention  whatever  of 
marrying  Catherine  yourself,  you  can  have  no  reasonable 
grrund  of  Abjection  to  her  union  with  another  ?" 


THE     RETURN.  345 

He  looked  up  in  surprise  and  anxiety,  out  soon  tlie 
startled  expression  subsided  into  3almness,  and  he  replied, 
coolly — 

"  Catherine's  union  with  another  !  Oh  !  the  supposition 
involves  an  impossibility." 

"  I  know  you  think  so,  Archer.  I  know  you  feel  per 
fectly  secure  of  this  sweet  girl,  and  just  as  easy  about  her  as 
if  she  were  secured  to  you  by  all  the  chains  that  church  and 
state  can  forge,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  you  take  things 
so  coolly,  and  listen  to  your  pride.  But  I  tell  you  that  it  ig 
uot  as  you  think.  You  are  not  forever  secure  of  Catherine. 
Our  moods  of  mind,  and  our  views  of  things,  change  with 
time.  And  however  the  maiden  may  feel  or  think  now,  if 
you  hesitate  for  years  between  your  pride  and  love,  she  will 
naturally  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  many  a  generous 
hearted  woman  has  come  to  before  her,  and  say  to  herself, 
*  Well,  I  cannot  be  happy  myself,  but  my  life  must  not, 
therefore,  be  wasted — I  can  make  some  one  else  happy,'  and 
oeing  scorned  by  one  she  loves,  give  herself  away  to  one 
who  loves  her." 

Major  Clifton  started  to  his  feet,  with  all  the  dark  side  of 
ills  character  uppermost,  exclaiming — 

"  Let  her  attempt  it !  I  would  stop  such  a  marriage  at 
the  altar*!  Catherine  is  mine,  or  nobody's.  She  could  not 
repel  my  claim." 

"  Dear  Archer,  sit  down ;  do  not  excite  yourself  or  me. 
Remember,  I  am  in  a  dying  state,"  said  the  lady,  as  the  best 
means  of  calming  him. 

"  Dear  madam,  forgive  me — forgive  me — but  why  intro 
duce  this  very  embarrassing  and  highly  exciting  subject  ?  I 
have  had  conflict  enough  in  my  own  bosom  about  it.  I  love 
your  favorite,  I  love  her  jealously,  fiercely — I  admit  it — but 
there  arc  objections  and  difficulties,  which  time,  or  a  new  set 
of  circumstances,  may  remove  ;  meanwhile,  I  could  not  bear 
to  soo  her  snatched  from  me.  But  there  is  time  enough — 
even  if  I  should  decide  upon  such  a  step,  there  is  time 
enough.  Kate  is  very  young  yet." 

"  But  you  are  not  very  young,  Archer." 

"  I  know  it,  dear  madam.  I  have  arrived  at  that  age  at 
which  men  do  not  make  imprudent  marriages  for  love." 

"  But  when  they  too  off  en  make  unhappy  marriages  of 
convenience.  Dear  Archer,  it  is  a  false  and  sinful  principle 
that  keeps  you  and  Catherine  apart.  AVill  you  spoil  two 


U6  THE      RETURN. 

lives  by  your  pride?     Your  hesitation  between  inclination 
and  prejudice,  weakens  you  and  destroys  her." 

"  *  Prejudices,'  dear  madam  !  Well,  I  suppose  they  ara 
prejudices,  but  just  think  of  the  horror  of  having  Carl  Kava* 
nagh,  the  farm  laborer,  for  a  brother-in-law,  and  being  called 
c  uncle'  by  his  ragged  progeny  !" 

"  Oh,  Archer,  your  inhumanity  shocks  me — they  are  hu 
man  creatures,  after  all — this  Carl  and  his  family." 

u  And  don't  you  see  besides,  madam,  that  if  I  should 
marry  Catherine,  and  introduce  her  into  society,  the  first 
question  would  be,  '  Who  is  she  ?'  and  the  answer  by  some 
good-natured  friend,  *  The  sister  of  one  of  his  farm  laborers,' 
would  expose  us  to  contempt,  if  it  did  not  rule  us  out  of 
good  company." 

"  Archer !  Archer !  can  it  be  that  you  weigh  these  falsi 
ties  with  the  deep  realities  of  life  ?" 

"  It  is  a  deplorable  thing,  indeed,  that  a  girl  of  such  noble 
nature  should  come  of  such  ignoble  parentage." 

"  No  !  it  is  a  congratulatory  thing  ! — or  would  be  so,  if  it 
were  not  such  a  usual  thing !  Archer,  you  will  find  moro 
moral  worth,  and  it  may  be  more  mental  worth,  among  the 
so-called  lower  classes,  than  among  the  higher ;  for  instance, 
among  the  men,  look  at  some  of  their  brows,  of  Shaksperian 
height  and  breadth — think  what  they  would  be  with  cultiva 
tion  !  And  I  tell  you,  with  all  their  disadvantages,  the  lower 
classes  will  give  to  our  republic  the  greatest  of  her  future 
great  men."* 

Major  Clifton  remained  in  deep  thought  for  awhile,  and 
then  taking  the  hand  of  the  lady,  said — 

<£  My  dear  mother,  the  objections  that  I  have  advanced 
are  those  that  have  arisen  in  my  mind,  from  time  to  time, 
giving  me  much  pain.  I  wished  to  hold  them  up  before  my 
self,  as  I  have  just  done,  in  order  to  see  what  they  realty 
consisted  of,  and  looked  like.  I  have  seen  the  worst  ot 
them,  and  in  their  ugliest  light,  and  they  will  not  deter  me 
from  taking  to  my  heart  the  girl  I  love.  I  have  weighed 
them,  and  the  whole  mass  is  light  in  the  balance  with  my 
need  of  Catherine.  I  will  marry  her.  I  will  go  and  tell 
her  so  now.  And  the  ceremony  shall  be  performed  whenever 
you  think  proper." 


•ion 


*  TUe  history  of  ni  )st  prominent  men  of  the  day  verifies  me  predio 


THE     RETURN.  347 

""Whenever  Kate  thinks  proper,  my  dear  Archer,"  replied 
thfi  lady,  smiling. 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  and  delivered  a  note  to 
Major  Clifton.  It  was  from  Mrs.  Georgia,  announcing  her 
return  to  White  Cliffs,  and  begging  the  company  of  Majoi 
Clifton  to  tea  that  evening. 


BETROTHAL. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

BETROTHAL. 


Twas  Ihy  high  punlv  of  sou., 

Thy  thought  repealing  eye, 
That  "conquered  all  my  pride  of  heart. 

Thou  wanderer  from  the  sky. — \v  G. 


M^JOR  CLIFTON  held  the  note  between  his  finger  and 
ihumb,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  while  a  pleasant,  contemplative 
einile  dwelt  on  his  face. 

"  Well,  are  you  not  going  to  answer  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Clif 
ton,  adding,  "The  servant  waits." 

"  Oh  !  answer  it !  yes !  wha^  is  it  about  ?"  he  exclaimed, 
starting  out  of  his  reverie,  and  glancing  at  the  note  again. 
Then  he  arose,  penned  a  hasty  excuse,  and  delivering  it,  to 
the  messenger,  dispatched  him.  Returning  from  this  busi 
ness,  he  said,  "  No,  I  cannot  leave  home  this  evening ;  since 
I  have  come  to  a  decision,  I  wish  to  have  a  good,  confidential 
talk  with  my  little  Kate.  How  much  I  have  to  say  to  her, 
how  much  to  draw  from  her,  if  I  can.  What  a  prison  de 
livery  of  thought  and  emotion  it  must  be  on  both  sides,  if  I 
can  get  her  to  talk !  But  she  is  so  shy,  except  when  under 
some  strong,  disinterested  feeling  for  another.  Move  her 
sympathies,  and  she  forgets  herself  and  loses  all  reserve , 
otherwise — she  is  so  shy." 

"  Yes,  very,  very  shy,  to  you.  Kate's  heart  and  brain 
are  sealed  volumes  to  you.  It  will  require  the  easy  intimacy 
of  long,  domestic  companionship,  to  find  out  all  her  excel 
lencies.  Her  husband  will  love  and  esteem  her  far  more 
dearly  and  highly  than  ever  lover  has  done — but  hush,  here 
she  comes." 

The  door  opened,  and  Catherine  entered,  from  her  morn 
ing's  household  duties,  with  her  little  basket  of  keys  hanging 
on  her  arm. 

"Come  hither,  dear  Kate,"  said  Major  Clifton,  holding 
nit  his  hand.  Catherine  put  her  little  basket  ha  its  jilaoe, 


BETROTHAL.  349 

«md  quietly  went  to  his  side.  He  encircled  her  waist  with 
his  arm,  and  holding  both  her  hands  captive  in  his  own, 
looked  fondly  in  her  face  till  one  dropped  her  eyes  in  con 
fusion,  and  then  he  said,  "  Dear  Kate,  my  mother  here,  who 
loves  you  almost  as  much  as  I  do,  if  that  were  possible,  wanta 
to  know  when  you  will  make  us  both  happy,  by  becoming  my 
wife  arid  her  daughter." 

He  paused  for  an  answer,  never  removing  his  eyes  from 
thdr  gaze  upon  her  glowing  cheek. 

"  Yes,  I  am  very  anxious  to  know  what  day  you  will  give 
yourself  to  us  entirely,  dear  child !"  said  Mrs.  Clifton,  and 
she  also  paused  for  a  reply. 

Catherine,  in  extreme  confusion,  glanced  from  one  to  the 
other,  and  finally  dropped  her  eyes  again. 

"  Come,  dearest  Kate,  it  is  but  a  word — the  name  of  some 
day  in  the  week  whispered  very  low,"  said  Major  Clifton,  in 
her  ear. 

"  Yes,  let  it  be  soon;  let  it  be  within  a  week,  dear  child 
My  time  is  short,  Kate,  and  I  wish  to  bless  your  marriage 
before  I  go  hence.  You  know  I  told  you  that  I  could  calcu 
late  the  progress  of  decay,  and  the  length  of  life  with  some 
accuracy,  and  I  tell  you  now  that  my  days  are  num 
bered." 

"  Come,  Kate,  if  you  cannot  speak,  give  me  one  of  yout 
short,  quick  nods.  Come,  this  is  Saturday — shall  we  be 
married  to-morrow  ? — next  day  ? — Tuesday  ? — Wednesday 7 
— Thursday  ?"  Catherine,  whose  heart  had  been  filling  all 
this  time,  now  burst  into  tears,  lie  drew  her  head  upon  Ins 
shoulder,  where  she  sobbed  awhile,  until  he  stooped  and 
whispered,  "  Dear  Catherine,  try  to  calm  yourself — do  you 
not  see  how  you  excite  our  mother?  there,  lift  up  your  head, 
and  go  to  her;  and  both  of  you  together  arrange  all  these 
little  matters  as  mother  and  daughter  should,  and  she  will 
let  me  know  the  result,"  and  tenderly  withdrawing  his  arm, 
he  passed  her  round  before  him,  and  stood  her  beside  Mrs. 
Clifton's  easy-uhair,  and  arose  and  took  his  hat  and  loft  the 
room,  with  the  same  happy,  half-contemplative  smile  upon 
his  lips.  Kate  sank  down  by  the  side  of  Mrs  Clifton,  and 
dropping  her  head  upon  the  lady's  lap,  wept  afresh.  The 
gentle  invalid  put  her  hands  upon  the  maiden's  shoulders 
caressingly,  but  did  not  seek  to  arrest  the  current  of  her 
emotion.  It  was  plain  that,  the  girl  herself  sought  to  stay 
her  tears,  for,  between  her  sobs,  she  exclaimed-  — 
22 


350  BETROTHAL. 

"  Forgive — excuse — I  know  it's  weaK,  wrong—  it  is  ofhj 
because — I'm  sograteful !" 

"The  lit  oT'eTrnotion^e^titrusted  itself,  and  she  lifted  up  lie? 
face,  wiped  her  eyes,  and  said — 

' «  Lady—" 

«  Call  IT.J  mother,  Kate." 

"  Mother !  heart's  dearest  mother !  do  you  think  ae  tni&- 
took  me  ?" 

"  How,  Kate  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  speak !  Indeed,  indeed  I  could  not !  But  I 
want  you  to  tell  him,  mother,  how  grateful  I  am,  and  how 
happy  !  Tell  him,  for  I  never  can,  how  much  and  how  long 
I  have  loved  him.  My  heart  has  been  single  to  him  ever 
since  I  first  knew  him.  I  will  try  to  make  him  a  good  wife — 
indeed,  indeed  I  will.  And  where  my  weakness  or  my  igno 
rance  fails,  I  will  pray  to  Heaven  daily  for  more  strength 
and  light.  Oh!  I  know  what  a  sacrifice  of  pride  and  preju 
dice  he  has  made  for  love  of  me — tell  him  so,  mother,  and 
tell  him—" 

"  No,  dear  Kate,  I  will  not  tell  him  that.  He  has  made 
no  sacrifice.  Nonsense.  And  if  he  had,  you  are  worth  it 
all,  all — his  wealth,  rank,  position,  pride  and  all !  Be  tru<» 
to  yourself." 

"  Oh,  what  am  I,  that  he  should  indeed  prefer  me  to  aH 
the  ladies  in  the  great  city  that  he  has  left ;  and  what  can  I 
bring  him  but  my  love  and  my  duty — all  my  love  and  all  my 
duty !" 

"  And  do  you  undervalue  these,  Kate  ?  Why,  they  are 
the  treasures  of  treasures.  And  you  would  judge  them  so 
in  another's  case.  But  here  you  are  fond  and  blind.  ^Now, 
dearest  Kate,  I  am  so  anxious  to  see  you  the  wife  of  Archer. 
And  I  wish  to  enjoy  that  pleasure  as  long  as  I  can — when 
fihall  it  be  1" 

**  Mother,  you  and  he  have  made  me  what  I  am,  and  given 
to  my  life  all  its  worth  and  value — now  what  can  I  do  but 
give  back  myself  and  life  to  you  ?  Dearest  mother,  fix  it  as 
you  will,  I  shall  be  happy,  any  way." 

«  Thursday,  Kate  ?" 

"  Yes,  Thursday,  dear  mother." 

The  lady  then  embraced  and  dismissed  her,  and  settled 
herself  back  in  her  chair  to  take  a  necessary  nap. 

Catherine  left  the  parlor  in  that  half-blissful,  half-fearful 
trance  that  falls  upon  one  when  the  great  life's  desire  and 


BETROTHAL.  351 

tope  is  about  to  bo  realized — happy  beyond  measure,  bui 
somewhat  incredulous  that  this  could  be  really  fact — reallv 
the  "sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss,"  and  no  dream,  and 
foreboding  some  stroke  of  fate  that  should  snatch  the  too 
great  joy  from  her.  Major  Clifton  was  standing  within  the 
open  front  door,  looking  out  upon  the  glorious  autumn  land 
scape  and  the  changing  foliage  of  the  trees,  some  of  the  outer 
branches  of  the  latter  burning  so  red  that  they  seemed  a-firo 
in  the  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun.  But  he  turned  to  Cathe 
rine,  with  a  buoyant  smile  and  step,  and  led  her  out  upon 
the  piazza.  The  habitually  grave  Archer  Clifton  was  almos^ 
gay.  He  was  in  that  happy  state  of  mind  that  all  will  re 
cognize  who  have  ever  had  a  severe,  long  standing  moral 
conflict  brought  to  end,  in  which  the  reason,  conscience  and 
heart  are  all  satisfied.  The  struggle  between  the  prejudices 
of  rank  and  the  passion  of  his  soul  was  over,  and  the  strong-  \ 
est  had  conquered,  and  now  reigned  alone,  and  a  fine,  vigor-  / 
ous,  healthful  joyousness  had  taken  the  place.  Qf  all  reserve 
and  gloom  and  eccentricity  ;  so  great  and  happy  was  this 
change,  that  Catherine  felt  no  more  the  strange,  shy  fear  of 
him  that  had  ever  placed  her  at  such  disadvantage  in  his 
presence.  He  led  her  to  a  shaded  seat  at  the  jend  of  a  piazza, 
where  there  were  no  intruders  but  a  glancing  line  of  sun 
light,  and  nothing  to  disturb  them  louder  than  the  rustle  of 
a  falling  leaf.  And  there  he  poured  out  the  long  hoarded 
mysteries  of  his  heart,  talking  on  and  on  as  the  hours  passed, 
until  successively  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out, 
and  clouds  arose  and  hid  them,  and  shrouded  the  piazza  in 
darkness.  And  still  he  talked— "  an'  he  would  talk  his 
last,"  not  even  heeding  the  approach  of  a  servant,  until 
Kenny's  voice  was  heard,  asking  Miss  Kate  to  come  and  give 
out  tea  and  sugar  for  supper.  Then  he  arose,  and  half  un 
mindful  of  the  presence  of  the  maid,  he  said — 

"  This  is  very  sweet,  dear  Kate,  very,  very  sweet — to  be 
able  to  say  to  you  everything  without  reserve — to  tell  you 
all  the  long  withheld  secrets  of  my  soul,  and  see  you  listen 
with  such  deep  interest;  but  when  will  you  be  equally 
frank  with  me — when  will  you  show  me  your  heart  ?' 

The  next  day  Major  Clifton  rode  over  to  White  Cliffo  tA 
pay  his  respects  to  Georgia. 

The  beauty  received  him  with  unrestrained  joy ;  out  in 
the  conversation  that  ensued,  reverted  to  what  she  called 
"  The  intrigues  of  that  low  born  inanoauverer,  Miss  Katra 


852  BETROTHAL. 

nagh,"  asking  him  if  he  had  not  observed  a  great  change 
in  Mrs.  Clifton,  ascribable  entirely  to  her  influence* 

It  gave  Major  Clifton  great  pain  to  hear  Catherine  tra 
duced  in  this  manner,  but  he  believed  Mrs.  Georgia  to  be 
perfectly  sincere  in  her  opinion,  and  only  the  victim  of  a 
mistake.  He  told  the  lady  so,  adding — 

"  I  am  about  to  give  Miss  Kavanagh  the  highest  proof 
of  confidence  that  one  being  can  give  another.  I  am  about 
to  take  her  for  my  life's  bosom  friend.  We  shall  be  mar 
ried  in  five  days." 

Had  a  bullet  sped  through  her  heart,  she  could  not  have 
given  a  more  agonized  bound.  Then  she  struck  both  hands 
to  her  temples,  started  hastily  half  across  the  floor,  paused 
again  as  if  distracted,  and  suddenly  cried  out — 

"  You  shall  not  do  it !  By  my  soul,  you  shall  not  do  it! 
You  never,  never  shall  become  the  dupe  of  that  woman ! 
I  have  entered  the  lists  with  her.  I  mean,  that  to  save  you, 
I  have  done  so,  and  before  I  leave  them,  I  will  prove  her 
false  and  treacherous.  God  show  the  right!" 

Major  Clifton  gazed  upon  her  in  wonder.  The  strong  emo 
tion  that  she  had  exhibited,  imposed  upon  him,  for  there  was 
no  doubting  its  reality  ;  and  far  from  suspecting  its  cause,  an 
unhallowed  passion  for  himself,  he  ascribed  it  solely  to  her 
strong  conviction  of  Catherine's  unworthiness,  and  to  her 
disinterested  regard  for  his  own  welfare.  And  when  she 
carne  and  threw  herself  upon  the  sofa  beside  him,  and  be 
sought,  with  all  the  eloquence  that  passion  and  the  demon 
could  lend  her,  that  he  would  pause  and  not  hurry  on  to  his 
ruin,  his  confidence  in  Catherine's  integrity  was  shaken  to  the 
foundation.  And  when  at  the  end  of  an  hour  he  rode  home, 
he  reached  Hardbargain  as  miserable  as  the  doubt  of  one  be 
loved  can  make  a  man.  If  love  has  the  Divine  power  of 
transfiguring  its  object  until  faults  are  excellencies,  suspicion 
possesses  the  demoniac  faculty  of  deforming  its  victim  until 
virtues  seem  vices,  and  under  its  influence  the  highest  and 
best  gifts  of  the  maiden,  her  intellect,  virtues,  and  graceo 
were  turned  against  her ;  her  talent  seemed  intriguing  art ; 
her  meekness  and  humility  became  meanness  and  sycophancy ; 
her  piety,  hypocrisy ;  and  her  girlish  shyness  the  sinister 
reserve  of  conscious  guilt. 

It  was  well  that  on  his  return  he  met  Catherine  only  in  his 
mother's  presence,  where  deep  regard  for  the  lady  constrained 
him  into  something  like  forbearance;  though  even  then  hia 


BETROTHAL.  353 

moody  manner  excited  some  uneasiness  in  iho  bosoms  of  the 
two  ladies.  When  Catherine  loft  the  room  to  order  dinner, 
the  conversation  that  ensued  tended  to  strengthen  his  newly 
revived  suspicions.  Mrs.  Clifton  told  him,  that  with  his  con 
sent  she  would  like  to  leave  the  farm  of  Hardbargaiu  to  Cath 
erine,  as  a  testimony  of  her  esteem  and  affection. 

"  And  for  i  more  practical  reason,  too,"  she  said,  "  for 
you  know,  my  dear  Archer,  that  the  estate  of  White  Cliffs 
being  entailed-  —if  you  should  die  before  her,  and  without 
male  children—  Catherine  and  her  daughters,  if  she  should 
have  any,  would  be  left  homeless.  But  if  I  leave  her  this 
farm  of  Hardbargain,  it  can  make  no  difference  to  you  during 
your  life,  and  if  Catherine  happen  to  survive  you,  it  will  se 
cure  her  a  home.  What  do  you  think  of  this  plan,  Archer "? 
You  look  grave  and  troubled.  If  you  have  the  slightest 
objection,  I  will  not  carry  it  out,  of  course." 

"  Surely  I  have  not  the  least  right  to  object,  my  dear 
mother  ;  your  property  you  have  made  by  your  own  labor, 
and  improved  by  your  own  admirable  management." 

"  You  have  the  right  of  nature,  my  dear  Archer ;  and  I 
see  by  your  gravity,  that  you  dislike  this  arrangement ;  there 
fore  it  shall  not  be  made." 

"  You  mistake  my  thoughtfulness,  dear  madam.  If  I  am 
somewhat  grave,  it  is  upon  another  subject.  Believe  me,  1 
have  not  the  slightest  fault  to  find  with  this  plan  ;  neither 
does  it  take  me  by  surprise,  I  have  been  prepared  for  it  months 
since.  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  informed  me  that  such  was  your 
intention." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  How  could  Georgia  have  known  any 
thing  about  it  ?  But  T  suppose  she  has  heard  me  drop  words 
to  that  effect.  May  I  hope  then,  that  this  purpose  meets  your 
approbation,  Archer?" 

"  Certainly,  madam,  it  can  make  no  material  difference,  if 
Kate  is  to  be  my  wife.  And,  if  she  were  not  to  be  so,  I  should 
be  quite  as  well  pleased." 

Unconscious  of  the  double  meaning  of  his  words,  the  lady 
then  inquired  into  the  cause  of  his  gloom. 

"  Merely  a  fit  of  moodiness,  dear  mother ;  the  reaction, 
perhaps,  of  yesterday's  joy;  a  mere  depression  of  spirits, 
which  a  brisk  gallop  over  the  hills  will  throw  off." 

"  If  you  are  inclined  for  a  ride,  Archer,  you  can  do  me  a 
service  at  the  same  time,  if  you  will  go  to  L —  —  and  briug 
w  Mr.  Whi*e,  the  lawyer,  tc  draw  up  my  will  '• 


854  BETROTHAL. 

A  spasm  of  pain  passed  over  the  handsome  countenance 
of  Major  Clifton,  and  he  said — 

"  1  will  do  anything  you  please,  dearest  mother  ;  but  surety 
there  is  no  necessity  for  haste  in  this  matter." 

"  Archer,  there  is.  Besides,  my  mind  will  be  easier  when 
it  is  done.  And  Archer,  lastly — bring  with  you  a  clergyman. 
I  wish  to  receive  the  Holy  Communion." 

Major  Clifton  made  no  farther  objection,  but  left  the  room 
to  order  his  horse ;  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  he  found 

himself  on  his  way  to  L .  Mrs.  Clifton  summoned 

Kate.  When  the  girl  entered,  she  found  the  lady  on  the 
verge  of  fainting  from  over-exertion  and  extreme  weakness. 
Catherine  grew  pale  with  sudden  fear,  and  her  hands  trem 
bled  as  she  poured  out  and  administered  a  restorative.  Some 
what  revived  by  the  cordial,  Mrs.  Clifton  said — 

"  Kate,  write  two  notes,  one  to  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton,  and 
one  to  your  brother  Carl,  asking  each  of  them  to  come  here 
this  evening  to  witness  a  deed — or  rather  two  of  them,  my 
dear  Kate — the  signing  of  my  last  will  and  testament,  and 
the  solemnization  of  your  marriage — for  both  must  be  has 
tened,  Kate.  My  dear  child,  take  your  pen  and  write  at 
once." 

Deeply  troubled,  extremely  agitated,  yet  struggling  to 
govern  her  feelings,  Catherine  found  the  writing  materials 
and  penned  the  two  notes ;  but  when  she  had  finished  them, 
in  the  abstraction  of  her  great  grief,  she  misdirected  them — 
and  sent  the  note  intended  for  Mrs.  Georgia  to  Carl  Ka- 
^auagh,  and  that  intended  for  Carl  to  Mrs.  Georgia.  When 
she  had  dispatched  these  notes  by  different  messengers,  and 
returned  to  the  parlor,  Mrs.  Clifton  said — 

"  Call  Henny,  my  dear  Kate,  and  let  her  assist  you  in 
getting  me  up  stairs.  It  has  come  at  last,  Kate." 

Almost  dismayed  by  sorrow,  Catherine  rung  the  bell  that 
brought  the  servants  into  the  room.  And  between  them 
they  raised  the  lady  to  her  feet.  Mrs.  Clifton  took  a  lung 
7ook  around  the  room,  as  though  she  were  taking  a  last  leave 
cf  every  dear  familiar  object  in  it ;  and  then  suffered  her 
self  to  be  supported  up  to  her  chamber. 


Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  was  pacing  her  chamber  floor,  in  all 
the  distraction  of  excited  eri»  passions,  racking  her  brain  foi 


BETROTHAL.  35f, 

an  expedient  to  ruin  her  rival  and  break  off  the  impending 
marriage,  when  the  "  spirits  that  tend  on  mortal  thoughts/' 
furnished  her  with  one.  A  messenger  entered  and  handed 
her  a  sealed  envelope,  directed  in  the  handwriting  of  Cathe 
rine  Kavanagh.  She  opened  it  in  surprise,  curiosity,  and 
even  in  some  degree  of  vague,  guilty  fear,  and  found  within 
the  misdirected  note  of  Kate  to  Carl.  It  read  simply  as 
follows : 

"  DEAR  CARL  : — 

"  Mrs.  Clifton  is  almost  dying.  She  says  you  must  come  to 
the  house  this  afternoon,  at  four  o'clock,  to  meet  a  lawyer 
and  a  clergyman,  and  with  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton,  to  witness 
the  signing  of  her  last  will,  and  also  my  marriage.  Do  not 
keep  her  waiting.  «  CATHERINE." 

This  note  contained  no  expression  of  esteem  or  affection 
for  the  invalid,  or  regret  at  her  approaching  death.  No !  for 
Catherine's  veneration  and  sorrow  were  too  earnest,  too  real, 
to  he  a  matter  of  wordy  formula.  But  in  the  evil  heart  of 
Georgia  this  simplicity  was  turned  against  the  girl.  And  her 
first  idea,  revealed  in  her  smile  of  satisfaction,  was  to  show 
this  mis-sent  note  to  Archer  Clifton,  and  bid  him  look  and 
see  with  what  perfect  coolness  and  indifference  the  writer 
could  announce  the  approaching  demise  of  her  benefactress. 
But  while  this  thought  was  revolving  in  her  mind,  Satan 
suggested  a  surer  plan — a  deadly  stratagem.  And  at  this 
inspiration  of  the  fiend,  the  dark  face  of  the  baleful  woman 
lighted  up  with  demoniac  joy.  She  seized  the  note  again, 
and  rushed  te  the  window,  and  scanned  the  hand-writing 
Georgia  inherited  all  the  imitative  talent  of  her  father,  the 
portrait-painter.  Catherine's  hand-writing  was  unique  :  small, 
square  letters,  with  heavy  strokes,  a  chirogaphy  peculiar  to 
herself,  yet  easily  imitated.  Mrs.  Georgia  copied  a  few 
selected  words — compared  them  with  the  originals,  and  was 
satisfied  with  her  work.  Next  she  wished  to  procure  note 
paper,  exactly  like  it.  Catherine's  note  was  written  upon 
n  mitral- tinted  paper,  that  had  been  given  her  by  Major 
Clifton.  Mrs.  Georgia  recognized  it  as  some  that  had  be 
longed  to  him.  She  thought  there  might  possibly  be  a  few 
stray  sheets  in  the  writing-table  of  the  library.  She  went 
thither,  and  after  a  diligent  search,  found  a  single  sheet 
This  she  took  with  her,  and  returned  to  her  chamber,  locked 
in.  aucl  art  down  to  her  fiendish  task.  Perfectly 


S5G  BETROTHAL. 

imitating  the  handwriting  of  Catherine,  slie  forge  I  the  fci- 
lowing  letter : 

"  DEAREST  CARL  : — 

"  My  long  slavery  is  almost  over.  The  old  woman  is  it  hct 
last  gasp,  and  wants  you  to  come  over  this  afternoon  at  four 
o'clock,  to  witness  her  will  and  my  marriage.  You  srco  1 
have  succeeded  in  catching  the  aristocrat,  and  in  wheedling 
his  mother  into  giving  me  Hardbargain,  in  my  sole  right. 
Am  I  not  a  triumphant  diplomatist?  When  she  is  dead, 
and  I  am  married,  and  mistress  of  White  Cliffs  and  of  Hard- 
bargain,  as  I  shall  probably  reside  at  the  principal  scat,  I 
intend  to  let  you  this  farm,  on  the  easiest  terms.  Never  fear 
Major  Clifton's  interference.  You  know  /  know  how  to 
manage  him.  "  CATHERINE." 

When  she  had  completed  her  demon-work,  Georgia  care 
fully  examined  it.  It  satisfied  her.  She  smilud,  and  mut 
tered — "Any  one  who  ever  saw  Catherine's  queer  hand 
writing,  would  feel  safe  in  swearing  this  to  be  Lers."  Then 
she  folded  it  in  the  form  of  the  other  note,  and  placed  it  in 
the  original  envelope — and  threw  it,  broken-sealed  as  it  was, 
upon  the  table,  exclaiming — "  There ! — 

"  '  I  have  eel  my  life  upon  a  cast, 
And  will  abide  the  hazard  of  ihe  die.'  M 


In  the  meanwhile,  Catherine  watched  by  the  bedside  of 
Mrs.  Clifton,  awaiting  the  return  of  Major  Clifton,  with  the 
clergyman  and  the  attorney. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  party  arrived 
The  professional  gentlemen  remained  in  the  parlor,  while 
Major  Clifton  went  up  into  the  chamber  of  his  mother.  As 
he  approached  her  bed,  and  perceived  the  fearful  change  a 
few  hours  had  wrought  in  her  appearance,  and  recognized 
the  sure  approach  of  death,  he  was  so  shocked,  so  overwhelmed 
with  sorrow,  that  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  he  could 
luatain  his  self-command. 

She  held  out  to  him  her  wasted  hand,  saving,  quietly — 

'•l  My  dear  Archer,  I  wish  to  have  the  marriage  ceremony 
bctn-t.cn  you  and  Kate  performed  this  afternoon,  if  you 
please." 


BETROTHAL.  357 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  mother,  it  shall  bo  AS  you  desire," 
he  replied,  repressing  a  great  groan — but  desirous,  above  all 
things,  to  gratify  that  dying  parent.  "  Shall  it  be  worn, 
mother  *" 

"  No,  dear  Archer,  not  just  yet — I  want  the  holiest  things 
.3ft  for  the  last — I  want  the  will  drawn  up,  witnessed,  signed 
nnd  scaled  first;  then  the  marriage  ceremony  performed  ; 
and  last,  I  wish  to  receive  the  Holy  Communion — after  which, 
I  shall  be  ready  to  depart." 

"  Mother — the  minister  and  the  lawyer  are  below  stairs, 
awaiting  your  leisure — they  will  remain  over  to-night.  DD 
not  disturb  yourself." 

"  My  good  Archer,  I  made  Catherine  write  to  Carl  Kava- 
nagh  and  to  Mrs.  Georgia  to  come  to  see  me  this  afternoon, 
they  have  not  yet  arrived.  Please  go  and  send  ao-ain  for 
them." 

Archer  Clifton  bent  and  kissed  his  mother's  forehead,  and 
went  down  stairs.  In  the  hall  he  saw  Carl  Kavanagh,  ha 
in  hand,  waiting. 

Carl  immediately  advanced,  and  said — 

"  Ah  !  Major  Clifton,  I  am  waiting  here  to  see  my  sister 
to  return  to  her  this  note,  that  she  has  sent  me  by  mistake 
t  think — perhaps  you  can  explain  it."  And  he  handed  tc 
Archer  Clifton  the  mis-sent  note  of  Catherine  to  Georgia. 

Major  Clifton  understood  the  mistake  at  once,  and  retain 
ing  the  note,  replied — 

"  Catherine  wrote  two  notes,  summoning  yourself  and  Mrs, 
Georgia  Clifton  to  Hardbargain,  this  afternoon,  to  witness 
the  signature  of  a  certain  document.  She  placed  them  io 
envelopes,  and  in  her  haste  misdirected  them — that  i?  all. 
Pray  remain  here,  while  I  ride  over  home,  and  bring  Mrs 
Georgia." 

Carl  Kavanagh  sat  down  in  the  hall,  and  Major  Cliftoi 
mounted  a  fresh  horse,  and  galloped  over  to  White  Cliffs 
Dismounting  at  the  gate,  he  threw  the  reins  to  a  servant 
and  entering  the  house,  sent  a  message  to  Mrs.  Georgia. 

The  servant  returned,  and  requesting  Major  Clifton  to  fol 
low,  led  the  way  up  to  Mrs. 'Georgia's  own  room,  opened  the 
door,  announced  the  visitor,  and  retired. 

Archer  entered  the  room,  and  found  the  lady  seated  at 
ner  work-table,  but  boking  pale  and  anxious.  By  her  work- 
box  lay  the  envelope  of  Kate's  true  note  with  the  forg3d  note 
in  i\ 


558  BETROTHAL. 

"Ah  !"  said  Major  Clifton,  after  greeting  tier,  "  1  AGO 
ii»«*t  you  have  received  Kate's  note." 

<'  Yes — one  that  was  never  intended  for  my  eyes,  but  of 
yiosc  of  a  fellow  conspirator.37 

"  Conspirator,  madam !' 

"  Yes,  sir.  Do  you  surmise  all  the  consequences  of  these 
rais-sent  letters  ?  Look  at  this  !"  she  said,  throwing  k  to 
him,  "  written  by  Miss  Kavanagh,  but  directed  by  mistake 
to  me.  Tes,  look  at  it !  Examine  the  envelope  !  and  then 
read  the  contents  of  the  note  !" 

Major  Clifton  glanced  at  the  superscription,  opened  the 
note,  and  read  it  through  with  a  cheek  growing  pale  and 
paler — until  he  finished  it — then  tossed  it  from  him,  and 
burying  his  face  in  his  hands'  groaned  aloud.  He  had  not 
the  slightest  suspicion  that  the  infamous  letter  was  a  forgery 
—no  ! — he  had  not  a  single  merciful  doubt  tnat  it  was  the 
work  of  Catherine — nay,  he  would  have  sworn  to  the  hand 
writing,  if  called  upon  to  do  so  in  a  court  of  justice — ho 
would  have  sworn  to  it  though  Kate's  life  hung  upon  his  oath! 
Any  one  else  who  had  ever  seen  her  peculiar  chirography 
would  have  felt  constrained  to  do  so,  if  requested — save  two 
— she  who  lay  dying  at  Hardbargain — and  she  was  to  know 
nothing  about  it — and  he,  the  rejected  lover,  now  far  away, 
who  would  have  cast  that  note  aside  in  high  disdain,  and 
staked  his  honor  on  her  truth.  Clifton  groaned  aloud,  in  the 
bitterness  of  disappointed  esteem.  Resentment  itself  was 
swallowed  up  in  sorrow,  and  he  exclaimed — 

"  Oh  !  would  to  God  she  had  died,  or  /  had,  before  I  knew 
this!" 

"  Rejoice,  rather,  that  you  are  saved  !" 

"  Saved,  madam  !" 

"  Yes — saved.  You  will  never  marry  her,  now .  "i  ou  are 
perfectly  justifiable  in  breaking  with  the  unmasked  traitress  !" 

"  And  in  shaking  the  last  few  sands  in  my  mother's  glass 
of  life.  The  discovery  of  that  girl's  treachery  has  driven 
me  to  despair — it  would  kill  my  mother  !  No,  lady !  I  must 
marry  her,  that  my  beloved  mother  may  depart  in  peace." 

"  Marry  her !"  screamed  Georgia,  with  the  cry  of  a 
wounded  hyena — "  marry  her,  and  sacrifice  all  your  hopes 
of  happiness,  for  the  sako  of  keeping  quiet  the  last  few  hours 
of  a  dying  woman  !  You  will  not  do  such  a  thing  :" 

"  My  hopes  of  happiness,  did  you  say,  Mrs.  Clifton  1  Ah, 
la-ty,  can  yor  not  Comprehend,  then,  that  when  one  at  IDJ  ag« 


BETROTHAL. 

}  %s  discovered — beyond  all  possibility  of  doubt — the  total 
nnworthiness  of  one  the  most  beloved  on  earth — the  heart's 
most  cherished  darling — the  life's  dearest  hope — "  down  broke 
his  voice,  and  down  dropped  his  head  upon  his  hands — then 
rising,  impatiently,  he  exclaimed — "  I  say,  can  you  not  com 
prehend  that  I  have  no  hopes  of  happiness  left  ?  I  loved  her 
so !  I  trusted  her  so  !  I  sacrificed  such  strong  prejudices 
for  her !  And  I  was  as  happy  as  a  converted  sinner,  when 
the  struggle  was  over  and  the  sacrifice  made.  I  could  have 
shaken  hands  with  her  freckled-handed  brother,  and  claimed 
kindred  with  all  his  rugged  race  !  And  now ! — I  am  un 
manned  !  I  am  a  fool !"  , 

"  No,  you  arc  not,  unless  you  marry  her.  You  are  not  the 
first  noble-minded  man  that  has  been  duped  by  a  bad  woman  ! 
iou  feel  it  as  every  generous-hearted  man  would.  But  it 
will  pass.  Life  has  many  chances,  and  you  will  be  happy 
yet.  My  friendship  is  not  much,  perhaps,  but  is  it  not  some 
thing  ?" 

"  Yes — yes — yes — yes — sweet  friend,  it  is  much,"  said 
Archer  Clifton,  slowly — half  soliloquizing,  as  he  took  and 
held  her  hand.  Then  suddenly  starting,  as  out  of  a  reverie, 
be  exclaimed — "  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  know  my  errand  here — it 
is  to  bring  you  over  to  Hardbargain,  for  the  purpose  of  which 
you  have  already  been  advised  by  the  note." 

"  To  be  present  at  your  mad  marriage,  among  other 
things!" 

«\res." 

"  I  will  not  go !  I  cannot !  I  cannot  witness  such  a 
sacrifice." 

"  As  you  please,  dear  Georgia.  I  suppose  there  is  no  im 
perative  necessity  of  your  doing  so — good-bye !"  and  he  arose, 
and  lifted  his  hat  from  the  table. 

"  Yes  !  good-bye,  indeed !  replied  Georgia,  bitterly — 
*  good-bye,  indeed  !  if  you  persist  in  your  insane  purpose  : 
— I  shall  remain  here,  and  hope  to  the  last.  But  when  I 
heat  that  this  marriage  has  really  taken  place,  I  leave  Whits 
Cliffs  within  the  hour!" 

"  You  will  think  differently,  dear  lady,  and  I  shall  see  you 
again,  shortly." 
""  Never  ! — as  the  husband  of  that  traitress." 

He  Jid  not  reply.  He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  left 
her. 

Left  to  Hrself,  mad  impulses  seized  the  disappointed  wo- 


560  BETROTHAL. 

man.  At  one  inslant  she  was  impelled  to  seize  the  forged 
letter,  and  rush  to  the  death-bed  of  Mrs.  Clifton,  and  there 
denounce  her  favorite  as  a  hypocrite  and  a  traitress.  But  a 
moment's  reflection  convinced  her  that  no  art  of  hers  could 
induce  the  dying  woman  to  think  evil  of  the  excellent  girl  sh£ 
herself  had  educated.  That  on  the  contrary,  such  a  step  might 
possibly  result  in  her  own  signal  defeat  and  exposure,  and 
the  everlasting  anger  and  contempt  of  Archer  Clifton.  Her 
brain  was  beginning  to  reel,  and  her  self-confidence  to  wane. 
In  sudden  fear  she  looked  around  for  the  forged  letter,  in 
tending  to  burn  it.  It  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Then  she 
recollected  that  Major  Clifton  had,  on  departing,  picked  it 
up,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  And  sick  with  disappointed 
love,  jealousy,  hatred,  and  fear,  she  tottered  towards  a  lounge, 
but  ere  she  reached  it,  fell  upon  the  floor.  In  the  meanwhile.. 
Major  Clifton,  riding  at  full  speed,  reached  the  farm  house. 

On  reaching  Hardbargain,  Major  Clifton  went  immediately 
to  Mrs.  Clifton's  chamber.  He  found  her  still  sinking.  She 
inquired,  in  a  faint  voice,  whether  he  had  brought  Mrs. 
Georgia.  He  replied,  with  perhaps  a  pardonable  ambiguity 
of  speech,  that  Mrs.  Georgia  was  too  much  indisposed  to  at 
tend.  Then  she  said  that  she  supposed  Mr.  White  (the 
clergyman)  would  consent  to  act  in  her  stead.  She  informed 
him  that  the  attorney  had  been  with  her,  and  had  drawn  up 
her  will  according  to  her  instruction,  and  she  requested  that 
the  parties  might  be  assembled  in  her  room  to  witness  the 
signing.  Major  Clifton  left  the  chamber  to  summon  them,  and 
soon  returned,  accompanied  by  the  lawyer,  the  minister,  Carl 
Kavanagh  and  Catherine.  The  will  was  then  read,  after  which 
the  lady  was  raised  up  in  bed,  and  supported  in  the  arms  of 
her  son  ;  the  document  was  placed  upon  a  portfolio  and  laid 
before  her,  and  a  pen  dipped  in  ink  and  presented  to  her. 
She  signed  her  name,  and  immediately  sank  back  exhausted. 
The  two  witnesses  affixed  their  signatures,  and  the  will  was 
delivered  into  the  custody  of  the  attorney.  A  restorative 
was  administered  to  the  invalid,  and  she  was  arranged  com 
fortably  upon  her  pillows.  Then  she  took  the  hand  of  her 
eon,  and  whispered — 

"  Let  the  marriage  ceremony  be  performed  at  once,  dearest 
Archer." 

He  pressed  that  wan  hand,  laid  it  tenderly  down  upon  the 
sovcrlct,  and  spoke  apart  with  the  clergyman,  who  occupied 
tho  chair  beside  the  head  of  tho  bed.  The  minister  solemnly 


BETROTHAL.  361 

trose,  drew  a  prayer-book  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it 
Major  Clifton  went  quietly  and  spoke  a  few  words  in  expla 
nation  to  the  lawyer  and  Carl  Kavanagh,  who  then  approached 
the  bed-side.  Lastly,  he  took  the  hand  of  Catherine,  and  led 
her  up  before  the  minister.  The  marriage  ceremony  com 
menced.  It  was  performed  according  to  the  ritual  of  the 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church.  But  when  the  great  question 
was  put  to  the  bridegroom — "  Archer,  <  wilt  thou  have  this 
woman  to  be  thy  wedded  wife,  to  live  together,  after  God's 
ordinance,  in  the  holy  estate  of  matrimony  ?  Wilt  thou  love 
ber,  comfort  her,  honor  her,'  "  etc. — instead  of  answering, 
according  to  the  ritual,  "I  will,"  he  replied  by  a  grave  and 
formal  bow,  with  silent  lips,  "  that  scarce  their  scorn  for 
bore."  When  the  corresponding  question  was  put  to  the 
bride,  Kate  too  replied  by  a  gentle  inclination  of  the  head, 
but  her  trua  heart  responded  sincerely,  earnestly.  When 
Jie  last  benediction  was  given,  and  when,  according  to  the 
)ld  formula,  the  bridegroom  was  to  salute  his  bride,  he  merely 
touched  her  cheek  with  cold  lips,  and  passed  her  on  to  his 
mother,  who  held  out  her  arms  to  embrace  her  daughter. 
The  singularity  of  Major  Clifton's  manner  was  scarcely  no 
ticed,  or  it  was  ascribed  to  the  solemnity  of  the  attending 
circumstances.  Mrs.  Clifton  now  desired  that  all,  with  the 
exception  of  her  sen  and  daughter  and  the  clergyman,  should 
bid  her  adieu  and  leave  the  room.  Her  request  was  complied 
with,  and  when  they  had  retired,  she  signi6ed  her  wish  to 
partake  of  the  Sacrament  of  the  Lord's  Supper  with  her  chil 
dren.  Major  Clifton  was  constrained  to  decline,  upon  con 
scientious  scruples ;  for  how  could  he  partake  of  the  Sacra 
ment  of  peace  and  brotherly  love,  with  his  heart  consumed 
with  indignation  against  his  newly-married  bride  ?  Catherine, 
however,  participated  in  the  Holy  Communion,  while  he 
looked  on  with  surprise,  mixed  with  a  degree  of  horror. 
\Vhcn  the  sacred  rite  was  over,  the  minister  of  God  took  an 
iflectionato  leave,  and  departed.  When  the  minister  was 
gone,  and  they  were  left  alone  together,  the  dying  mother 
beckoned  her  son  and  daughter  to  come  and  sit  near  her. 
They  obeyed  her,  and  she  addressed  them  a  few  words  of 
earnest,  affectionate  counsel,  blessed  them,  and  resigned  her 
self  to  rest.  Her  eyelids  closed  calmly,  and  her  breathing 
was  gentle  and  regular  •  they  had  to  mark  attentively  before 
they  knew  that  it  grew  fainter  and  fainter.  Once  she  opened 
csr  eyes,  and,  smiling  1  or  old,  reflecting  smile,  said — 


3G2  BETROTHAL. 

"  Dear  Archer,  I  have  often  tried  to  detect  the  exact  mo 
ment  of  falling  asleep.  I  watch  now,  to  sec  if  I  can  seize 
the  precise  instant  of  passing  from  mortal  to  immortal  life." 

And  she  closed  her  eyes  again.  After  a  few  minutes,  she 
said — 

"  Sing  to  me,  dear  Kate !  You  know — Heber's  death 
hymn." 

Catherine  bent  and  kissed  the  pallid  lips  of  the  dying  wo 
man,  and  then  her  voice  arose,  sweet,  clear  and  spiritual  as 
angels'  songs,  in  that  immortal  requiem — 

"Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oil  !  quit  this  mortal  frame  ; 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
Oil !  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying; — 
Hark!  they  whi<per,  angels  say — 
Sister  spirit,  come  away— 

At  the  end  of  the  first  stanza,  she  murmured,  faintly — 
"  Your  voice,  too,  dear  Archer." 

His  voice  arose  now  in  unison  with  Catherine's,  and  they 
sang  the  remainder — 

"  The  world  recede? — .t  disappears  : 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes  ;  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring. 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  ;  I  mount,  I  fly! 
Oh,  grave,  where  is  thy  victory? 

Oh,  death,  where  is  ihy  sting?** 

They  ceased,  and  looked  upon  the  marble  face  before 
them.  It  was  still  in  death,  but  there  remained  upon  th« 
countenance  the  impress  of  the  ecstatic  smile  with  which  tha 
spirit  had  taken  its  flight — 

"  Her  death 
Wee  like  the  setting  cf  a  planet  m..d  " 


THE     POISON     WORKS.  3(53 

c::  API  EH  xxxi. 

THE  POISON  WORKS. 

'Tis  slander ; 

Whose  edge  is  sharper  than  the  sword;  \vh<w  fondue 
Oatvenoms  all  the  worms  of  the  Nile.— SHAKSPEARE. 

WHEN  Archer  Clifton  saw  that  all  indeed  was  over ;  when 
he  looked  upon  that  mother-face,  the  first  which  had  ever  met 
his  conscious  gaze  in  life;  that  old,  familiar  face,  which 
seemed  to  him  coeval  with  his  being,  and  a  necessary  part 
of  it ;  that  face  the  most  intimate,  the  most  loving,  the  most 
faithful  which  had  ever  shone  upon  his  path  of  life ; — and 
felt  that  it  was  lost  forever;  that  the  light  of  those  quiet 
eyes  was  darkened  forever ;  the  sound  of  that  kind  voice 
silenced  forever ;  the  smile  of  those  calm  lips  fled  forever ; — 
when  he  clasped  that  mother-hand,  and  felt  that  those  dear 
fingers  would  close  upon  his  own  in  cordial  grasp  never,  never 
more  ;  -oh  !  when  he  felt  that  all  was  over,  over,  "  finished, 
done  and  ended,"  he  fell  upon  his  knees  by  the  corpse, 
dropped  his  head  upon  the  cold,  inanimate  bosom,  and  broke 
into  convulsive  sobs. 

Weeping  freely,  Catherine  knelt  by  his  side,  and  put  her 
arm  around  his  neck.  He  was  unconscious  of  her  presence, 
until,  after  giving  way  to  sorrow  for  a  few  moments,  she 
lifted  up  her  head,  and  wiped  her  eyes,  and  controlling  her 
own  emotion,  sought  to  console  him — 

"  Do  not  grieve  so,  dear  Archer,"  she  murmured,  with 
her  arm  again  around  him,  "  do  not  grieve,  but  pray" 

Then  indeed  he  suddenly  grew  calm,  unclasped  the  gcntlo 
arm  of  Catherine  from  his  neck,  arose  slowly  from  his  kneel 
ing  posture,  took  her  hand,  and  raised  her  upon  her  feet,  and 
regarding  her  with  a  stern  and  sorrowful  countenance,  said, 
in  severe  rebuke — 

"Come!  madam!  no  more  hypocrisy  now!  None  Jicro 
at  least '  It  is  useless  hereafter  !  You  have  accomplished 
your  design.  You  are  a  «  successful  diplomatist/  and  your 
'  long  slavery'  is  now  over." 


364  THE      POISON      WORKS. 

Catherine  lifted  her  eyes,  dilated  with  sorrow  and  amaze 
ment,  and  fixed  th<:iu  on  l.js  iVe  ;i%  instant ;  but  the  look 
she  met  there,  the  expression  of  mingled  suffering  and  se 
verity,  such  as  might  have  sat  upon  the  brow  of  Brutus, 
when  the  feelings  of  the  man  and  the  duty  of  the  judge 
strove  in  his  bosom,  awed  her  into  silence  before  him.  She 
could  express  no  surprise  or  grief — ask  no  explanation.  The 
old  shyness  and  fear  came  over  her,  and  her  eyes  fell,  arid 
her  cheeks  paled.  Again  he  spoke  in  the  same  stern,  sor 
rowful  tone — 

"  Ay,  cower  with  conscious  guilt !  You  are  discovered  ! 
And  you  should  have  been  unmasked  before  her  to-day,  but 
that  I  did  not  wish  to  embitter  her  last  moments  !  that  only 
saved  you  !  Come  !  leave  the  room  that  you  desecrate  with 
your  presence  !  Leave  me  alone  with  my  de&d  !" 

But  instead  of  obeying,  she  stood  like  a,  statue  before 
him. 

Then  he  took  her  hand  and  led  her  through  the  door,  and 
closed  it  behind  her. 

Catherine  stood  there  where  he  had  placed  her,  amazed, 
confounded,  unable  to  move  a  step  forward,  until  the  thought 
of  practical  duties,  now  pressing  upon  her,  gave  her  strength, 
and  she  passed  on  to  summon  those  whose  office  it  was  to 
prepure  the  dead  for  burial.  But  amid  all  the  multifarious 
tasks  that  devolved  upon  her  at  that  trying  time,  as  newly 
installed  and  unassisted  mistress  of  the  house,  she  could  not 
for  an  instant  forget  her  awful  bereavement,  or  the  dreadful 
anger  of  her  husband. 

He  came  out  of  the  room  of  death  at  last,  and  passed 
Catherine  on  the  stairs,  and  his  stern,  averted  countenance 
at  that  moment  almost  broke  her  heart.  But  she  went  on 
cnduringly  with  her  tasks.  Often  she  raised  her  soul  in 
prayer  to  God  for  help.  Once,  during  that  desolate  night, 
she  found  time  to  open  her  Bible,  and  her  eyes  fell  upon  this 
text :  Romans,  8,  28.  "  And  we  know  that  all  things  woik 
together  for  good,  to  them  that  love  God" — she  paused  upon 
the  text,  repeating,  "  f  all  things,'  all  things,  even  this  !  1 
will  believe  it!"  And  her  face  grew  beautiful  with  divine 
faitn,  and  she  reverently  closed  the  book,  and  went  on  her 
way  comforted.  She  had  need  of  fresh  strength  and  com 
fort,  indeed,  to  meet  a  fresh  trial.  On  coming  clown  stairs 
Bhe  met  Henriy,  who  seemed  to  be  on  the  look  out  for  her. 


THE     POISON     WORKS. 

a**'  who  placed  a  note  in  her  hand.  It  was  from  Major 
Ouiton,  and  read  as  follows — 

<'I  desire  that  you  keep  your  chamber  to-morrow,  or,  at 
leai*,,  refrain  from  insulting  the  memory  of  the  dead,  by  ap 
pearing  at  the  funeral.  ARCHER  CLIFTON." 

She  nodded  her  head  slowly<»  meditatively,  with  a  look  of 
gweetest  resignation  ;  then  beckoned  Henny  to  follow  her,  and 
returned  to  her  chamber.  There  she  sat  down  and  wrote  the 
following  note — 

"  I  ^vill  absent  myself  from  the  funeral,  since  you  wish  me 
to  do  so ;  I  will  also  keep  my  room,  if  you  desire  it,  when  I 
remind  you  that  there  is  no  one  to  supply  my  place  in  the 
household  arrangements  for  the  solemnities  of  the  day. 

"CATHERINE." 

She  sent  this  by  Henny,  but  received  no  reply  to  it.  Con 
struing  silence  into  consent,  she  went  about  the  house  as 
usual  attending  to  her  duties. 

In  the  meantime,  Major  Clifton  sat  in  his  study,  awaiting 
an  answer  to  a  note  he  had  written  to  Mrs.  Georgia,  apprising 
her  ot  the  recent  events,  and  requesting  her  to  come  at  once 
to  the  house.  He  had  not  to  wait  long;  his  messenger  re 
turned,  and  informed  him  that  he  had  met  the  lady  on  her 

way  to  L ,  to  take  the  stage  coach  to  Richmond.  The 

man,  at  the  same  time,  gave  the  intelligence  that  Mr.  Kava- 
nagh  waited  in  the  hall,  to  know  if  he  could  be  of  any  service 
to  Major  Clifton  on  the  present  occasion. 

"  Show  him  in,"  said  Major  Clifton. 

The  man  went  out  and  soon  returned,  accompanied  by 
Carl,  whose  face  expressed  the  most  profound  and  sincere 
sympathy. 

"  Set  a  chair  for  Mr.  Kavanagh,  and  retire,  James." 

The  man  obeyed,  Carl  seated  himself,  and  in  person  re 
peitod  his  condolences,  and  his  tenders  of  service. 

In  reply,  Major  Clifton  took  from  his  pocket  the  forged 
r.ofc9  and  laid  it  before  him,  saying,  coldly — 

"  There  is  the  note  your  sister  wrote  to  you,  arid  sent  by 
mistake  to  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton.  Read  it." 

Carl  took  it  up,  wondering  what  might  be  tlie  use  of  read 
ing  it  now,  but   as  he  glanced  over  its  contents,  his  eyes 
giew  wide  with  astonishment,  and  when  he  had  finished  it, 
he  laid  it  down  ^gain,  exclaiming — 


3C6  THE      POISON      WORKS. 

M I  am  confounded !" 

"  I  should  think  so,  sir  !"  coldly  remarked  Major  Clifton, 

"  She  speaks  of  letting  me  the  farm !  I  never  had  the 
slightest  desire  to  rent  the  farm,  and  before  I  hoard  the  will 
read,  I  had  not  even  the  slightest  idea  that  Mrs.  Clifton  de 
signed  to  leave  it  to  my  sister!" 

«  Ah  !     Really  ?"  asked  Mr.  Clifton,  ironically. 

"  Really  and  truly,  and  sincerely  and  positively,  I  had 
not." 

"  Tautological  asseveration  is  no  evidence.  Why  should 
she  have  written  to  you  thus  if  you  had  not  ?" 

"  How  do  I  know,  sir  ?  I  tell  you  I  am  amazed !  And 
if  1  did  not  know,  beyond  all  possibility  of  doubt,  the  hand 
writing  to  be  Catherine's,  I  should  say  that  she  did  not  write, 
and  that  she  never  could  have  written  such  a  letter." 

"  Which  means  plainly  this,  that  if  there  did  not  exist  the 
most  positive  proof  to  the  contrary,  you  would  fain  deny  it," 
sneered  Major  Clifton. 

"  Yes,  sir  !"  answered  Carl,  boldly.  "If  the  proof  posi 
tive  to  my  mind,  as  well  as  to  your  own  did  not  exist,  I  would 
deny  it,  and  I  do  deny  any  personal  agency  or  knowledge 
about  it  whatever  !  I  say  to  you  that  I  am  amazed  !  It  la 
incomprehensible  to  me  how  Catherine  could  have  conceived, 
much  less  written  such  a  letter  !  And  above  all  things,  it  is 
inexplicable  how  she  should  have  written  so  disrespectfully 
of  Mrs.  Clifton,  whom  she  loved  and  venerated  so  much." 

"  Or  whom,  for  certain  purposes,  she  pretended  to  love 
and  venerate  so  much." 

"  She  did,  sir !  She  really  did.  She  was  sincere  in  her 
esteem  and  affection.  She  was  sincere  in  all  things." 

"  I  know  she  affected  rare  sincerity." 

"  It  was  no  affectation,  Major  Clifton.  I  have  known  her 
from  childhood — it  was  truth.  And  I  tell  }*ou,  I  scarcely 
believe  my  own  eyes !  I  scarcely  believe  that  I  am  awake 
when  I  see  that  letter  !  I  am  confounded  !" 

"Well,  sir!"  said  Major  Clifton,  sternly,  his  whole  man 
ner  changing,  "  /,  at  least  am  not  so  confounded  as  not  tc 
know  that  she  never  would  have  written  such  a  letter  to  you, 
had  you  not,  been  the  confidant  of  her  plans.  And  you  aro 
not  so  confounded  as  to  be  ignorant,  that,  after  such  a  de 
velopment,  I  am  constrained  to  forbid  you  the  house,  and  tr 
intevdic*  all  communication  between  your  sister  and  -your 
•elf." 


THB     POISON     WORKS.  gfl7 

There  was  something  of  Catherine's  own  nobility  in  tha 
manner  of  Carl's  reply.  He  stood  a  moment  with  his  fore 
head  thrown  back,  as  if  in  calm,  unimpassionod  thought,  then 
he  said — 

"  Major  Clifton,  my  sister  is  now  your  wife,  and  you  have, 
doubtless,  the  perfect  right  to  control  her  actions — neither 
do  I  accuse  you  of  undue  severity  in  this  affair,  for,  under 
like  circumstances,  I  should,  parhaps,  be  tempted  to  act  in 
the  same  way.  I  cannot  account  for  this  letter.  For  tho 
present,  it  must  remain  unexplained.  Nor  can  I  exculpate 
myself  any  more  than  my  sister  from  the  odiurn  of  a  suspicion, 
which  Grod  knows  I  am  willing  to  bear  with  her,  since  I  can 
not  clear  her  of  it.  You  do  not  know  how  dear  to  an  only 
brother's  heart  is  his  only  sister.  Yes  '  I  am  willing  to  share 
the  odium  with  her,  hoping,  knowing  that  it  will  pass  away 
in  time.  And  then,  Major  Clifton,  you  will  feel  more  pain 
at  the  recollection  of  the  injustice  you  have  done  us,  than  I 
feel  now  in  suffering  it.  You  will  be  more  angry  with  your 
self  than  I  could  be  with  you.  You  will  reproach  yourself 
more  bitterly  than  I  could  reproach  you,  were  I  never  so  in 
dignant.  And  I  am  not  indignant  at  all .  I  could  not  be 
so !  All  feelings  are  subdued  to  calmness  in  the  sacred 
proximity  of  the  unburied  dead  in  the  next  room.  One  thing 
only  remains  to  be  said.  It  is  this :  I  cannot  continue  to 
live  upon  this  place,  under  the  cloud  of  the  master's  ill 
opinion.  My  engagement  as  manager  of  this  farm  terminates 
with  this  year,  I  shall  be  glad,  if  before  the  time  expires, 
you  will  provide  yourself  with  another  overseer." 

"  As  you  please,  Mr.  Kavanagh.  Yet  I  should  not  have 
sent  you  away  with  your  young  family." 

"  You  are  considerate,  sir !"  said  Carl,  bowing,  then  add- 
in2 — « I  presume  you  have  no  further  commands  for  me, 
Major  Clifton  ?" 

"  None,  Mr.  Kavanagh." 

"  Good-night,  sir." 

"  Crood-night." 

The  next  day  was  the  day  of  the  funeral.  Before  the  peo 
ple  began  to  assemble,  Catherine,  impelled  by  an  irreoistible 
desire  to  gaze  once  more  upon  the  face  of  her  beloved  friend, 
found  herself  at  the  door  of  the  front  parlor  in  which  the 
corpse  was  laid  out  for  burial.  But  here,  with  her  hand 
upon  the  lock,  she  hesitated,  and  finally  stifling  her  crying 
want  turned  away,  saying  within  herself—"  No,  I  will  noi 


168  THE      POISON      WORKS. 

intrude.  1  will  be  guided  by  the  spirit  as  well  as  by  the 
letter  of  Ms  commands.  He  will  not  accept  my  love.  To 
yield  him  perfect  unquestioning  obedience  is  all  the  earthly 
comfort  I  have  left."  And  she  began  to  retrace  her  steps. 

Major  Clifton  came  out  of  the  back  room  and  met  her  face 
to  face. 

"  What  were  you  doing  near  that  door,  Catherine  ?" 

"  I  wished  to  take  a  last  look  at  her  dear — "  Here  Kate 
burst  into  tears  and  wept  convulsively  a  few  minutes — during 
which,  Clifton  watched  her  in  stern  sorrow.  Then  controlling 
herself,  she  said,  "  I  wished  to  look  once  more,  and  for  the 
last  time,  upon  her  beloved  face.  But  when  I  reached  the 
door,  and  was  about  to  enter,  I  remembered  your  commands 
and  turned  back." 

Clifton,  who  had  never  taken  his  eyes  from  her,  groaned 
aloud.  Then  he  said,  gravely  and  sadly — 

"  Catherine,  if  any  feeling  of  penitential  sorrow  inspires 
your  wish  to  go  there,  go,  in  Heaven's  name  !  And  may  the 
Bight  of  that  dead  face  bring  you  to  repentance." 

She  turned  to  thank  him,  and  ask  him  what  he  wished  her 
to  repent — but  before  she  could  find  words,  he  had  re-entered 
his  study  Catherine  passed  into  the  room  of  death,  turned 
down  the  pall,  and  gazed  upon  the  face  of  the  dead.  It  had 
changed  very  much — every  furrow  and  every  wrinkle  was 
softened  out  of  it,  the  forehead  was  as  smooth  as  the  brow 
of  childhood,  an  ineffable,  a  divine  repose  spread  like  a  dream 
of  Heaven  over  the  features.  Catherine's  tears  were  stayed, 
the  convulsions  of  her  bosom  were  calmed,  her  soul  was  awed 
and  exalted  as  she  gazed  upon  this  countenance,  so  beautiful 
in  death.  But  at  last  her  full  heart  revealed  itself  in  a  look 
of  unutterable  tenderness  and  devotion,  and  she  njurnmred, 
in  low,  slow,  gentle  tones — "  You  always  loved  and  trusted 
me.  and  for  your  dear  sake,  I  will  be  a  good  wife  to  your  3nn. 
Yes !  whatever  he  may  be  to  me,  for  your  dear  sake,  as  well 
as  for  his  own,  I  will  be  a  good  wife  to  him.  Hear  my  vow 

I  cannot  think  you  dead.  This  is  all  I  see — this  beautiful, 
calm  clay;  but  I  know  your  spirit  hovers 'near.  Hear  my 
vow.  Hear  me  promise,  with  God's  grace,  to  dedicate  all  my 
faculties  of  brain,  and  heart,  and  hands  to  his  interest  and 
nappiness  !  to  bear  all  things,  to  endure  all  things,  to  hope 
all  things,  even  to  the  end  of  life,  come  what  may  ;"  she 
stooped  and  sealed  her  vow  by  a  farewell  kiss  upon  the  brow 
%nd  lips  of  that  beloved  face,  and  reverently  covered  it,  and 


THE     POISON     WORKS.  3t>9 


—not  tc  abuse  her  privilege  by  too  long  a  stay— slowly  left 
the  room.  She  never  saw  that  face  again. 

Within  an  hour  afterwards,  the  company  began  to  assemble 
in  great  crowds,  for  Mrs.  Clifton  was  widely  known  and 
greatly  respected  and  beloved.  The  clergyman,  who  was  to 
{  erform  the  burial  service,  arrived,  and  the  solemnity  couu 
menced.  In  the  mean  time  Catherine  sat  in  her  distant 
chamber,  listening  to  the  faint,  inaudible  sound  of  the  min 
ister's  voice  that  reached  her  from  afar,  or  else  engaged  in 
prayer,  but  always  calmed,  strengthened  and  consoled.  Many 
poople  at  the  funeral  wondered  greatly  why  the  young  bride 
had  not  appeared  with  her  husband ;  but  some  one  imagined 
it  to  be  because  she  was  too  much  overcome  by  sorrow  to  be 
present,  and  told  it  as  a  fact,  which  was  at  once  believed,  and 
circulated.  And  that — like  many  an  other  idle  falsehood, 
satisfactorily  silenced  conjecture.  When  the  services  ware 
over,  and  the  funeral  procession  had  left  the  house  for  tho 
grave-yard — when  Catherine  felt  that  her  more  than  mother 
was  now  indeed  gone,  gone,  gone — she  cast  herself  upon  her 
bed  in  the  last  agony  of  sorrow. 

Little  household  cares.  What  blessed  though  humble 
ministers  to  sorrow  they  are — gently  drawing  away  the  mourn 
er  from  the  contemplation  of  her  grief,  and  compelling  atten 
tion  to  themselves.  So  they  give  occupation,  and  induce 
forgetfulness — aiding  in  their  humble  way  the  great  comfort 
ers^  religion  and  time.  An  hour  spent  in  bitter  tears  and  sobs, 
and  then  the  little  domestic  duties  came  hovering  about  her 
like  little  children,  claiming  her  care.  There  was  a  large  sup 
per  to  be  prepared,  and  bed-chambers  to  be  got  ready  for 
friends  who  had  come  from  the  remoter  parts  of  the  county, 
and  who  would  therefore  remain  until  the  next  morning. 
And  so  Catherine  arose  and  refreshed  herself  with  cold  water 
and  a  change  of  dress,  and  went  below  stairs  to  superintend 
the  operations  of  her  cook  and  house-maids. 

When  everything  was  in  readiness,  she  went  into  the  draw 
ing-room,  where  she  received  the  returning  visitors  with  a 
pensive,  gentle  dignity  that  won  all  their  hearts,  proud  con 
servators  of  rank  as  they  were.  And  that  evening,  young 
girl  and  new  bride  as  she  was,  she  presided  at  the  head  of 
the  long  table,  filled  with  the  county  aristocrats,  with  all  the 
ease  and  grace  of  a  lady  "  to  the  manner  born."  Preoccu 
pied  by  one  earnest  thought  and  purpose,  she  never  once  re 
membered  herself  as  a  new  comer  into  their  ranks,  or 


3TO  THE    rorsoy    WORKS. 

« 

troubled  nerseif  with  the  question  of  what  mighl  be  their 
opinion  of  her.  For  the  rest,  her  courtesy  was  graceful  and 
dignified,  because  it  was  natural,  and  not  assumed — the  effect 
of  benevolence  and  kindly  social  feeling,  and  not  of  pride, 
vanity,  or  ostentation. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  the  guests  departed. 
And  many  and  cordial  were  the  invitations  to  their  houses 
extended  to  Catherine  by  all — even  the  haughtiest  defenders 
of  the  sacredness  of  caste.  Catherine  received  all  these 
civilities  with  a  gracious  nobleness,  that  sat  naturally  and 
well  upon  her.  And  all  this — the  very  evident  esteem  and 
respect  of  her  neighbors,  and  the  admirable  manner  in  which 
Catherine  received  them,  would  have  highly  gratified  the 
pride  of  Major  Clifton,  could  anything  except  her  exculpa 
tion  from  suspicion  have  pleased  him.  As  it  was,  he  witnessed 
it  all  with  a  moody  brow,  and  sneering  lip,  and  murmured 
to  himself — 

"  Better  and  better,  '  Maria  Teresa.'  You  should  have 
seen  more  of  the  world,  before  you  threw  your  diplomatic 
talents  away  upon  me,  and  my  country  neighbors." 

Well,  at  length  they  were  all,  to  the  very  last  guest,  gone, 
and  Major  Clifton  and  Catherine  were  left  alone,  left  stand 
ing  together  in  the  hall,  whence  they  had  seen  the  departures. 

Catherine,  hesitating  between  her  fear  of  intruding  upon 
his  notice,  and  her  dislike  to  leave  him  abruptly  and  rudely, 
stood — no  longer  self-possessed  and  noble — but  with  her  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  with  the  color  deepening  in  her 
cheek,  in  embarrassed  silence,  wishing  that  he  might  say 
something  to  her,  something  to  explain  the  nature  of  that 
dark  cloud  that  had  arisen  so  strangely  between  them. 

He  broke  the  silence  by  saying,  coldly — 

"Mrs.  Clifton — "  She  started  and  colored,  at  hearing 
herself  addressed  by  her  new  name.  "  It  is  my  intention  to 
make  White  Cliffs  our  future  home.  I  desire  that  you  be 
ready  to  accompany  me  thither  to-morrow  morning." 

Catherine  bowed  her  head  in  acquiescence.  And  with  a 
told  nod,  he  placed  his  hat  upon  his  head,  and  walked  forth, 

Catherine  went  in,  and  occupied  the  remainder  of  the  day 
in  directing  the  labor  of  her  servants,  who  were  all  employed 
in  setting  the  house  in  order  after  the  late,  confusing  events, 
in  packing  away  goods,  and  covering  up  furniture,  and  in 
preparing  generally  for  the  closing  up  of  the  building. 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


DEDICATION. 


Stand  up,  look  below, 

It  is  my  life  at  thy  feet  I  throw, 

To  step  with  into'  lierht  and  joy, 

Not  a  power  of  life  hut  I'll  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want. — BROWKITIG. 

THE  *eiit  trorning  after  breakfast,  the  family  carnage  was 
Mmounwcr  to  take  them  to  White  Cliffs.  Catherine  put  on 
her  bonnot  atui  shawl,  and  stood  waiting,  until  Major  Clifton, 
drawing  on  hi;*  gloves,  came  forward  and  attended  her  to  the 
carriage  uoor.  He  handed  her  in,  entered  himself,  took  the 
seat  opposite  to  her,  and  bade  the  coachman  drive  on.  The 
whole  dijtatiCR  between  Hardbargain  and  White  Cliffs  was 
passed  over  iu  perfect  silence  by  the  parties.  Major  Clifton 
preserving  a  stern  gravity  of  demeanor,  and  Catherine 
scarcely  daring  to  lift  her  eyes,  lest  she  should  encounter 
that  severe  but  sorrowful  gaze  that  almost  broke  her  heart. 
She  longed  to  inquire — 

"  Oh,  Major  Clifton !  What  is  this  that  has  arisen  between 
us  ?  Give  the  misery  a  name  !  Tell  me  ?"  But  the  shy 
ness  and  fear  she  had  always  felt  in  his  presence,  and  doubly 
felt  when  he  was  reserved  or  displeased,  and  above  all,  the 
bashfulness  of  new  bridehood,  forced  her  into  silence. 

At  last  the  ride  was  over,  and  the  carriage  stopped  before 
the  main  entrance  of  the  mansion-house. 

The  plantation  laborers,  in  their  holyday  2lothes,  mar 
shalled  by  the  overseer,  were  assembled  upon  the  lawn,  and 
th3  house  servants  in  their  "  Sunday's  best,''  with  the  house 
keeper  at  their  head,  waited  on  the  piazza  "  to  pay  their 
duty." 

When  the  carriage  had  drawn  up,  Major  Clifton  alighted 
and  assisted  his  bride  to  get  out.  He  led  her  up  the  marble 
*tairs  to  the  front  door.  "  The  housekeeper  with  a  c'amey. 


stepped  forward  to  attend  her.  But  with  the  courteous 
Kindness  that  Major  Clifton  seldom  omitted,  he  waved  her 
aside,  merely  saying — 

"  Mrs.  Mercer,  send  all  these  women  about  their  duties, 
and  tell  Turnbull  to  disperse  the  men.  I  do  not  wish  to  be 
disturbed.  There  is  my  pocket-book — give  them  what  they 
want — only  let  me  l(  -o  (ec." 

"  And  give  them  my  love  and  good-wishes,"  murmured 
Catherine,  shyly,  but  not  wishing  to  dismiss  them  so  coldly, 
for  her  desolate  heart  had  been  comforted  by  the  looks  of 
sincere  respect  and  affection  with  which  they  had  seemed  to 
receive  and  accept  her  as  their  new  mistress. 

Major  Clifton  merely  threw  up  his  chin  with  an  assenting 
nod,  muttering — 

"  The  popularity-seeking  instinct  of  the  diplomatist."  He 
then  conducted  her  into  the  drawing-room,  led  her  up  its 
whole  length,  and  seated  her  upon  a  sofa  with  ironical  cere 
mony,  saying — 

«  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  are  welcome  to  White  Cliffs." 

Startled  by  his  tone,  she  looked  up,  lifting  those  long, 
drooping  lashes,  until  her  soft,  dark  eyes  at  last  met  his  cold, 
rebuking  gaze. 

Then  his  whole  aspect  changed,  and  from  having  been  sar 
castic  and  scornful,  became  grave  and  severe.  Standing  be 
fore  her,  he  folded  his  arms,  drew  himself  up,  and  keeping 
his  'eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  her  face,  said — 

"  And  now,  lady,  listen  to  me.  The  aim  and  object  of 
your  life  is  accomplished — consummated.  You  have  at 
length  attained  the  position  to  which  you  have  long  aspired, 
for  which  you  have  long  and  deeply  and  successfully  played. 
You  are  numbered  among  the  ladies  of  the  county  aristo 
cracy.  You  bear  the  haughtiest  name  of  all.  You  are  Mrs. 
Clifton,  of  Clifton." 

All  this  time  her  eyes,  wide  open,  dilated,  fascinated  by 
surprise  and  grief,  met  his  stern  gaze  in  sorrowful  wonder. 
He  continued — 

"  Yes,  madam,  you  wear  my  name  such  as  it  is  .  Yen 
rule  my  house  such  as  it  is !  But  as  for  its  pcor  master, 
lady,  he  is  your  most  humble  servant,  but  no  lover  !" 

Her  eyes  fell  beneath  his  sarcastic  look,  arid  she  waa 
fcstr.pted  +o  -wish  herself  dead. 

Tie  continued — 

**  I  leavp  here  in  a  few  days,  for  the  purpose  of  raising  ft 


DEDICATION.  873 

company  to  serve  in  the  coming  war  with  Great  Britain.  You 
will  remain  here  at  White  Cliffs  to  take  charge  of  affairs 
during  my  absence.  If  you  really  hoped  to  flaunt  in  tho 
city  this  winter,  I  am  sorry  for  your  disappointment.  But 
there  are  duties  as  well  as  dignities  attending  the  position 
ot  the  mistress  of  Clifton,  and  these  must  not  be  neglected. 
1  snail  exact  their  performance.  The  overseer  and  the  farm 
laborers,  as  well  as  the  housekeeper  and  her  assistants,  have 
crders  to  obey  you  in  everything.  Good-morning,  madam." 

And  so  abruptly  he  turned  upon  his  heel  and  left  her 
One  moment  she  sat  there  amazed,  confused,  with  her  hands 
pressed  upon  her  temples  ;  and  in  another,  losing  all  feeling 
for  herself —feeling  only  for  him,  she  sprung  to  his  side,  and 
caught  his  hand,  exclaiming — 

"Stay!  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  stay!  one  moment — 
only  one  moment,  while  you  tell  me.  Oh  !  after  all,  have  I 
made  you  unhappy  ?" 

"  Unhappy  !  You  have  been  and  you  are  the  bane  of  my 
life !" 

"  How  ?  Merciful  Heaven,  how  ?  when  [  only  wish  to 
consecrate  mine  to  you  !" 

"  Do  you  dare  to  ask  me  ?" 

"  Well ! — tell  me — tell  me  !  hov)  can  I  remedy  my  fault- 
whatever  it  is  ?     What  can  I  do  to  comfort  you  ?" 

"  Nothing  but  refrain  from  troubling  me  with  your  com 
pany  or  conversation,  when  it  is  not  absolutely  necessary. 
Again — good-morning."  And  so  he  freed  himself  from  her 
clasp,  and  left  the  room. 

She  tottered  backwards  and  fell  into  a  chair,  her  head 
dropped  upon  her  hands  and  she  gasped — 

"  All-merciful  Father,  do  not  forsake  me  now,  for  I  am 
desolate — I  am  desolate."  And  she  sat  despairing,  fallen, 
the  very  image  of  utter  self-abandonment.  She  sat  there 
until  aroused  by  the  voice  of  the  housekeeper,  who  entered 
the  room,  came  up  to  her  side,  and  spoke  to  her  twice  before 
she  heard — then — "What  did  you  say?"  she  asked. 

"  I  have  come  to  receive  your  orders  for  the  day,  Mrs. 
Jlifton." 

tt  i ..  Please  to  manage,  to-day,  without  my  advice., 

I  —I  am  not  well — and  very,  very  weary." 

"  You  look  so,  indeed,  madam.  There  is  a  fire  kindled  in 
your  chamber,  will  you  go  up  there  and  lie  dowia,  and  let  mo 
Wing  yoK  a  cup  of  tea  *" 


574  DEDICATION. 

<c  I -  No,  I  thank  you — I  am  much  obliged  to  you. 

J3ut — only  leave  rue  here  to  rest." 

The  housekeeper  went  and  closed  the  shutters  :  stirred  the 
fire,  set  a  screen  between  it  and  Catherine's  seat,  and  quietly 
withdrew. 

«  Oh  !  this  vill  never  do  !"  said  Catherine,  trying  to  rouse 
herself  from  her  stupor  of  despair.  "  This  will  never  do. 
To-day  I  have  made  a  bad  beginning;  but  to-morrow  I  must 
rise  and  be  as  active  and  efficient  as  if  I  were  happy." 

She  met  Major  Clifton  again  at  dinner.  The  meal  passed 
almost  in  silence,  and  immediately  after  it  was  over,  he  took 
his  hat  and  left  the  house.  She  did  not  see  him  again  until 
tea-time,  after  which,  he  went  and  spent  the  evening  in  his 
study.  Catherine  felt  the  need  of  calm  thought,  to  under 
stand  her  position  and  duties ;  and  of  prayer,  to  gain  strength 
and  patience  to  perform  them.  She  spent  several  hours  in 
reading  the  Scriptures,  in  meditation,  and  in  prayer,  and 
then,  comforted,  retired  to  bed.  She  arose  early  the  next 
morning,  strengthened  and  consoled,  with  a  very  clear  per 
ception  of  her  circumstances  and  responsibilities. 

"  My  path  through  this  intricate  trouble  is  made  very 
plain.  I  must  discharge  every  domestic  duty  and  every 
social  obligation,  just  as  faithfully,  if  not  as  cheerfully,  as 
though  I  were  a  bappy  wife,"  she  said.  And  she  went  down 
stairs,  and  gave  her  orders  for  the  day. 

When  Major  Clifton  came  down  into  the  breakfast-room 
he  found  a  quiet  cheerful  scene — a  sunny  window,  a  bright 
fire,  a  well  spread  breakfast-table,  and  Catherine  herself,  in 
her  simple  morning-dress,  looking  calm  and  placid.  There 
was  an  expression  of  curiously  blended  anger  and  admiration 
and  amusement  on  his  face,  as  he  flapped  his  dressing-gown 
around  him,  and  dropped  himself  into  the  easy-chair  by  the 
fire,  giving  her  "  Good-morning,"  and  hoping  that  she  was 
well. 

"  As  usual,"  replied  Catherine,  handing  him  the  paper 
that  had  just  come  from  the  village,  and  ringing  for  break 
fast. 

When  the  meal  was  over,  he  reseated  himself  in  the  arm 
chair,  reading  the  newspaper,  while  Catherine  still  sat  at  tho 
board,  pouring  out  bowls  of  coffee,  and  filling  plates  with 
frast  or  muffins,  to  send  to  the  old  or  sick  among  the  ne 
groes — these  being  always  supplied  with  their  meals  from  the 
unstress's  table  Major  Clifton  glanced  over  the  top  of  hi* 


DEDICATION.  375 

paper  at  Lor,  sometimes  in  irony,  sometimes  in  sorrow, 
always  in  doubt.  And  she  —  unpleasant  as  his  manner  was, 
felt  glad  to  have  him  near  her.  I  really  believe  that  she  had 
Hither  he  sat  there  and  made  faces  at  her,  than  not  sat  there 
at  all.  And  she  felt  lonesome  and  dreary  when  at  last  he 
left  tho  room,  put  on  his  riding-coat  and  left  the  house.  As 
yesterday  pissed,  so  passed  to-day  —  she  meeting  him  only  at 
meals.  And  so  a  week  passed  on.  It  is  not  easy  to  be 
rerv  heroic  for  a  day,  or  two,  or  three  days  ;  but  when  one 
day  follows  another,  each  with  the  same  continuous,  extra 
ordinary  demand  for  fortitude,  it  is  strange,  indeed,  if  heart 
zmd  flesh  do  not  fail  under  the  task.  Nothing  but  Divine 
Providence  can  give  the  requisite  strength  of  endurance.  In 
the  prenenee  of  her  husband,  Catherine  was  calm  and  cheer 
ful  ;  but  oflcn  in  her  private  hours  the  sense  of  desolate  be 
reavement  would  come  over  her,  and  gusts  of  tears  and  sobs 
would  fo/low.  These,  like  the  summer  gusts  of  blessed  na 
ture,  wor/M  always  refresh  her,  and  she  would  be  enabled 
again  to  take  the  comforting  promises  of  the  Bible  to  her 
heart.,  iu  her  favorite  text  —  "  And  we  know  that  all  things 
work  together  for  good,  to  them  that  love  God,"  and  to  ask 
God:&  blessing  again  upon  her  resolution  "  to  perform  every 
demesne  and  every  social  duty  as  faithfully,  if  not  as  cheer 
fully,  as  though  she  were  a  happy  wife."  And  yet  it  was 
very  hard  to  do  this.  It  was  very  dreary  to  feel  shut  out 
from  her  husband's  heart  ;  to  meet  him  every  day  with  the 
same  stern,  sorrowful  brow,  or  in  variation  of  that,  with  the 
same  ironical  smile.  It  was  difficult  to  go  on  with  a  repulsed 
and  aching  heart  doing  mere  mechanical  duty.  She  could 
not  have  done  so  but  that  two  powerful  principles  sustained 
her  —  an  invincible  love  for  her  husband,  and  an  unwavering 
faith  in  God. 

One  morning,  about  two  weeks  after  their  arrival  at  home, 
Major  Clifton  sat  alone,  reading,  in  his  study,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Catherine  entered.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
she  had  intruded  there,  and  he  looked  up,  threw  aside  his 
book,  arose,  and  pushed  back  his  chair  with  a  look  of  annoy- 


*«  Excuse  me  for  interrupting  you,  but  may  I  speak  to  you 
for  a  few  minutes  ?" 

"  Speak  on,  madam,  but  oblige  me  by  being  brief.  Par 
don  me  —  take  a  seat,"  he  said,  handing  her  a  chair,  and  re* 
Burning  his  own. 


376  DEDICATION. 

Catherine  sat  down,  felt  very  much  like  another  fit  of  soh« 
and  tears,  but  restrained  herself,  and  said,  quietly — 

"  Major  Clifton,  whatever  this  is  between  us — " 

"  I  must  remind  you  that  this  is  a  prohibited  subject  of 
discussion,  madam,  he  said,  interrupting  her. 

"  I  will  i.ot  talk  of  it  again — how  can  I,  indeed,  when  I 
do  not  know  what  it  is  ?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  angry  disbelief,  and  begged  her  to 
come  at  once  to  the  object  of  her  visit. 

Well,  then,  I  wished  only  at  first  to  say,  that  whatever  be 
the  cause  of  this  cruel  misunderstanding  between  us,  it  will 
pass  away.  You  look  at  me  in  surprise  and  doubt — but  it 
will9  Major  Clifton — it  will — it  must — there  is  no  truth  and 
reality  in  it,  and  it  must  be  temporary.  I  have  thought  it 
ail  over,  very  sadly,  but  very  calmly  and  clearly,  and  I  know 
that  it  must  be  transient.  My  faith  bridges  over  this  im 
practicable  present  in  our  lives,  and  I  see  the  future,  when 
you  will  understand  me.  I  never  did  anything  to  offend  you 
in  my  life.  And  God,  to  whom  I  have  committed  our  cause, 
knows  nay  innocence,  and  in  His  good  time  He  will  make  it 
plain.  It  must  be  so.  The  promise  of  the  All-Merciful, 
the  Almighty  Father,  is  pledged  to  the  Right!" 

He  turned  away  from  her,  with  a  stamp  of  fierce  displea 
sure.  He  turned  away  from  her  savagely,  because  he  felt 
jhat,  had  he  looked  and  listened  a  moment  longer,  he  should 
have  abjured  all  his  evil  thoughts,  and  snatched  her  to  his 
bosom — she  was  so  patient,  so  hopeful,  so  beautiful  with  truth 
and  love,  that  he  could  scarcely  resist  the  impulse  to  fold 
her  to  his  heart — false  as  he  deemed  her  to  be.  As  it  was, 
he  suppressed  the  true  instinct — obeyed  the  false  suspicion 
and  turning  again  sharply  upon  her,  demanded  to  know,  one* 
for  all,  to  what  this  new  piece  of  hypocrisy  tended. 

"  I  mean  this,  Major  Clifton— that  as  our  estrangement 
must  needs  be  transient — do  not,  under  its  influence,  let  u* 
do,  or  omit  to  do,  anything  that  may  hereafter  affect,  unh.ip* 
pily,  our  social  relations  with  others." 

"  As how,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?" 

"  Thus.  The  county  families  have  all  called  upon  u».  )t 
is  high  time  that  we  return  their  visits,  if  we  mean  to  keen 
up  the  connection." 

"  Oh  !  Ay  !  Excellently  well  thought  of,  Maria  Teresa  !" 
he  sneered. 

With  a  passing  look  of  distress,  she  said — 


DEDICATION.  377 

"  I  only  fear  that  our  pleasant  intercourse  with  the  neigh 
l>ors  may  not  be  so  easily  resumed,  if  they  have  reason  to 
suppose  that  we  treat  them  with  indifference  and  neglect." 

"  Admirably  calculated,  madam  !  A  contingency  has  pre 
sented  itself  to  your  diplomatic  wisdom,  that  never  would 
have  occurred  to  my  simpler  mind.  So,  you  wish  to  confirm 
your  position,  and  extend  your  connection  here  in  the  county! 

Well !   the  aristocrats  of  II ,  have  certainly  taken  you 

•ip  with  a  zeal  and  determination  that  is  surprising.  But 
ivhen  they  have  once  made  up  their  haughty  minds  to  patro 
nize  »  /»ew  comer,  it  is  wonderful  to  what  length  they  will 
go.  But  you  may  thank  your  own  fine  diplomatic  talents  for 
that!" 

"  Diplomatic  talents  !  What  diplomatic  talents  ?  *So  many 
people  have  *  thrust'  that  questionable  'greatness'  upon  me, 
that  it  mortifies  me.  No — I  know  the  only  value  and  cur 
rency  I  have  among  the  county  people,  is  the  value  you  have 
given  me — the  stamps  of  your  name  and  rank.  And  I — I 
do  not  wish  to  disparage  it.  I  *>-ish  to  appear  worthy  of  it — 
that  is  all." 

"  And  you  really  believe  what  you  say  "?" 

«  Truly,  I  do." 

Again  she  looked  so  lovely,  in  her  truth  and  humility,  that 
he  was  almost  tempted  to  relent.  And  again  the  impulse 
only  made  him  more  unjust. 

u  In  a  word,  madamr  what  do  you  wish  me  to  do,  for  I 
begin  to  weary  of  this  discussion.  Nor  is  it  well  to  subject 
myself  to  the  influence  of  your  fascinations,  for  I  candidly 
admit  to  you  that  I  am  sensible  of  them,  as  others  have  been." 

"  I  only  wished  to  propose  to  you  to  take  a  day,  and  drive 
around  the  neighborhood  with  me,  to  return  the  calls  that 
have  been  made  upon  us." 

"  Very  well,  madam,  I  am  at  your  commands  whenever 
you  please  to  call  upon  me  for  that  service.  When  do  you 
propose  to  go  ?" 

"  At  your  earliest  convenience." 

«  Will  to-morrow  do  ?" 

"  If  you  please." 

"  To-morrow  then  let  it  be.  And  now,  Mrs.  Clifton,  have 
you  any  further  commands  for  me  ?" 

"  Thank  you — no,"  she  answered,  very  sadly,  and  turned 
to  leave  the  room — hesitated,  came  1  ack,  and  resting  her 
naud  upor  the  study-table  for  support,  because  she  wa* 


378  DEDICATION. 

trembling,  said,  "  Forgive  me — and  let  me  speak  to  you  ona 
more  word,  will  you  I" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  so  sorrowful  to  be  misunderstood.  Please,  do  not 
mistake  me  in  this  matter.  For  myself,  I  do  not  care  to  fol 
low  up  my  acquaintance  with  these  county  people.  I  havo 
lived  all  my  life  without  extensive  social  intercourse.  I  have 
lived  all  my  life  in  strict  domestic  retirement.  I  am  so  usea 
to  it  that  it  is  natural  and  agreeable  to  me.  Indeed,  I  prefer 
it— but— " 

"Well?" 

She  was  suddenly  silent.  She  wished  to  cay,  "  But  with 
you  it  is  otherwise.  Living  in  the  county,  you  need,  or  will 
hereafter  need  an  extensive  neighborhood  connection.  And 
for  your  sake,  I  would  not  alienate  these  people  by  neglect." 
.But  she  could  not  say  it.  Her  old  shyness,  and  a  delicate 
fear  of  seeming  to  wish  to  place  him  under  an  obligation,  kept 
her  mute. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?  If  such  seclusion  is  so  agreeable  to 
you,  why  do  you  wish  to  change  if?" 

"  I  owe  the  ladies  some  acknowledgment  of  their  civility 
o  us." 

"  Have  you  anything  farther  to  say  to  me  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Catherine,  and  with  an  involuntary  gesture  of 
pain  and  distress,  she  turned  and  left  the  room,  with  all  her 
generous  thoughts  unspoken.  When  the  door  had  closed 
behind  her,  Archer  Clifton  started  up,  struck  his  clenched 
hands  to  his  forehead,  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  floor,  dis 
tractedly  exclaimed — 

"  I  love  her !  I  love  her  !  It  is  no  use,  I  do  love  her  ! 
Every  day  more  deeply  and  desperately  I  love  her !  In  her 
presence  all  her  unworthiness  is  forgotten  or  disbelieved ! 
Yes !  yes !  her  deep  hypocrisy,  her  black  ingratitude,  ILV 
mother's  wrongs,  all,  all  are  lost  to  memory  !  Just  now  I 
could  have  snatched  her  to  my  bosom  and  wept  over  her 
falsehood,  rather  than  have  cast  her  from  me  !  Yes,  more  ! 
I  could  have  implored  her  forgiveness  for  ever  believing  in 
that  guilt  which  is  but  too  well  proved !  I  love  her !  She  is 
the  pulse  of  my  heart !  the  soul  of  my  life  !  She  embodies  all 
the  meaning  of  existence  to  me  !  Heart  and  brain — y  »s  ! — 
body,  soul  and  spirit  starve,  perish  for  a  full  reconciliation 
and  a  perfect  union  with  her  !  She  is  lovely,  she  is  beautiful 
to  me  She  always  was !  Yet,  oh  !  Apple  of  Sodom,  thai 


DEDICATION. 

«he  is !  shall  I  take  such  falsehood  and  corruption  to  mj 
heart .  I  must  leave  the  house  !  must  leave  the  neighbor- 
^ood  !  for  here  I  wilt  and  wither  !  And  she  !  how  can  sha 
bear  it  ?  for  I  think,  with  all  her  falseness,  she  loves  me  very 
much.  How  can  she  bear  life  ?o 7  How  can  she  rise  each 
morning  and  go  through  all  the  occupations  of  the  day  so 
regularly,  quietly,  cheerfully,  day  after  day  ? — omitting  no 
duty,  domestic  or  social,  small  or  great,  from  the  stitching 
niy  ripped  gloves,  to  the  keeping  up  of  the  county  connec 
tion,  in  sooth !  While  7,  I  daily  wilt,  wither,  in  this  moral 
mildew — idle,  despairing,  forgetting  all  my  obligations — for 
getting  that  my  country  needs  my  arm !  This  cannot  last ! 
This  must  not  be  !  I  must  get  away  from  here !  I  muse  raise 
a  volunteer  company,  and  offer  myself  to  the  government,  *nd 
in  the  tumult  of  the  campaign  find  forgetfulness  or  a  grave!" 

Unable  to  compose  himself  again  that  morning,  he  rang 
the  bell,  ordered  his  horse,  seized  his  hat,  went  out,  mounted, 
and  rode  away. 

The  next  morning  Catherine  arose  early,  and  amoi.g  her 
orders  for  the  day  directed  that  the  carriage  should  be  at  the 
door  by  ten  o'clock.  At  the  appointed  hour  she  attired  her 
self  with  care  and  taste,  and  went  down  into  the  front  hall, 
where  she  found  Major  Clifton  in  readiness  to  attend  her. 
They  entered  the  carriage  and  set  out,  and  in  the  course  of  b 
drive  of  five  or  six  hours'  duration,  made  the  circuit  of  tho 
neighborhood,  calling  upon  several  families.  And  every 
where  Catherine  was  received  with  distinguished  respect. 
They  reached  home  again  about  the  middle  of  the  afternoon. 

The  next  few  days  passed  on  in  the  usual  dreary  routine — 
except  that  Catherine  knew  Major  Clifton  was  out  riding 
every  day  and  all  day,  and  that  he  was  in  his  study  writing 
half  the  night.  She  did  not  know  what  this  portended  until 
one  morning  he  said  to  her — 

"  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  will  oblige  me  by  having  rny  wardrobe 
prepared  and  packed  at  your  earliest  convenience.  I  have 
orders  to  join  the regiment  within  a  week." 

Catherine  turned  very  pale  and  reeled  as  if  she  would  have 
filisn,  but  grasped  the  chair  and  steadied  herself,  till  strength 
returned. 

"  All  shall  be  ready  for  you,"  she  replied. 

And  he,  with  a  cold  bow  of  acknowledgment,  wei.t  his  way, 


"THE    ME^KI.'ESO    or    LOVE." 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 


«  THE  MEEKNESS  OF  LOVE  " 

So  she  strove  against  her  weakness, 

Thoug-h  at  times  her  spirit  sank; 
Shaped  her  heart  with  woman's  meekness, 

To  all  duties  of  her  rank. — TENNYSON. 

CATHERINE  remained  seated  in  the  chair  into  which  she 
fiad  sunk,  with  her  face  buried  in  her  open  palms.  Her 
favorite  maid  Henny,  from  the  Hardbargain  farm-house,  was 
in  attendance.  Henny  had  cleared  away  the  breakfast  ser 
vice,  with  the  exception  of  the  silver  plate,  which  was  col 
lected  upon  a  salver  ;  and  she  stood  by  her  mistress's  chair 
waiting,  in  respectful  sympathy  ;  at  last  she  said — 

"  Miss  Kate,  honey,  if  you  lend  me  the  keys  o'  the  plate 
closet,  I  can  put  away  the  things  safe,  without  your  troubliu 
o'  yourself." 

Catherine  lifted  her  head  languidly,  and  pushing  away  her 
drooping  hair,  exclaimed,  quite  unconsciously,  and  as  if  the 
words  burst  of  themselves  from  her  overburdened  bosom — 

"  Oh  !  Henny,  if  you  knew  how  little  heart  I  have  to  do 
anything !" 

"  I  does  know  it,  mist'ess,  deary  ;  but  you  mus'  jes  take  a 
'flection  on  to  it,  honey,  an'  'sider  how  it  ain't  on'y  marster, 
but  mos'  in  general  all  the  gemmum  in  the  neighborhood,  as 
is  gwine  far  the  wars." 

Regretting  that  she  had  permitted  a  complaint  to  escape 
her  lips,  yet  satisfied  that  her  servant  did  not  understand  or 
Buspect  the  true  cause  of  her  sorrow,  Catherine  arose,  and 
said — 

"  Take  up  the  salver  and  follow  me,  Henny.  Idle  grief 
Is  veiy  fruitless.  If  we  cannot  keep  our  friends  with  us,  it 
is  better  to  prepare  for  their  comfortable  living  while  absent, 
than  to  sit  down  in  useless  sorrow." 

"  An'  that's  the  Lord's  trufe,  Miss  Kate,"  said  Henny 
':fting  the  l»den  salver  en  her  head,  and  settling  it  steadily. 


"THE     MBZKNKSS     OF     LOVE."  881 

rt  tliat  s  Marster  blessed  trufe  !  'Sides  which,  I  has  a  heap 
to  do  myself,  to  ge;  brother  Jack's  duds  ready,  to  go  long  o' 
Marse  Archy." 

"  Is  your  brother  going  with  Major  Clifton,  Henny  ?" 

"  'Deed  he  is,  honey — gwine  to  ride  body-servant  long  o* 
marster,  to  wait  on  him  in  camp ;  likewise  in  field  o'  battle, 
to  hold  his  t'other  horse,  in  case  his  whichest  one  should  be 
shot  unnerncaf  of  him — Oh,  Lord  Marster  Jesus !  what  a 
thing  that  is  to  think  of!  Likewise  in  soldier's  newniform, 
on  the  bay  horse  Billy,  which  brother  Jack  would  sell  his 
mortal  soul  any  time,  for  the  sake  o'  dressing  fine,  an'  ridin' 
a  horseback — cussed,  infunnelly  fool ! — I  axes  your  pardon, 
Miss  Kate ;  don't  look  so  'noyed,  honey ;  I  won't  use  bad 
words  again — 'deed,  'fore  my  blessed,  Hebbenly  Marster 
won't  I,  honey ;  but  it  is  so  aggravoking,  when  I  comes  to 
think  o'  what  a  slave  I've  made  o'  myself  to  brother  Jack, 
ever  since  mother  died,  and  the  'turn  he  makes  me  for  it; 
wantin'  to  go  gallivauntin'  off  to  the  wars  in  soldier's 
clothes,  an'  a  long  tailed  horse  !  Here  has  I  been  'jecting 
some  o'  the  most  illegible  colored  men  in  the  neighborhood, 
an'  beiu'  of  an  old  maid,  sake  o'  takin'  care  o'  him,  'cause 
he's  delicy  in  his  health,  an'  he  to  be  wantin'  to  go  leave  me  ! 
An'  he,  with  a  'sumption  in  his  breas',  to  want  to  go ;  'spos- 
ing  of  hisself  gettin'  his  feet  wet  sogerin'  !  An'  he  'blige 
to  wear  a  tar  plaster  on  his  ches',  to  be  campin'  out  an'  lay- 
in'  on  the  naked  yeth !  An'  knows  he  can't  congest  nothin' 
but  rabbits  an'  partridges,  an'  wants  to  go  where  he'll  have 
to  live  offen  roas'  tators,  like  Gin'al  Marion  an'  his  men,  in 
the  Resolutionary  War !  It  mos' — mos' — mos' — breaks  my 
heart!" 

And  with  that  Henny  set  down  the  salver  and  began  to 
cry,  while  her  mistress  opened  the  plate  closet. 

"  Put  them  in,  Henny,  and  I  will  see  what  can  be  done 
for  you  afterwards,"  said  Catherine. 

Henny  obeyed,  and  then  said,  as  they  left  the  room — 

u  If  you  could  'suade  Marse  Archy  to  leave  poor  Jack, 
poor  sickly  fellow,  at  home,  an'  take  some  o'  the  other  young 
niggers.  Der  ain't  one  o'  them  but  'ould  be  'joyed  to  go. 
Der's  Dandy  now,  'ould  be  willin'  to  go  to  his  everlastin* 
ruination,  'sake  o'  ridin'  body-sarvant  long  o'  marster — " 

"  I  will  speak  to  Major  Clifton,  Henny.     You  know  him 
to  be  kind  and  considerate.     And  I  am  sure,  he  is  not  aware 
of  Jack's  pulmonary  affection." 
24 


382  "THE    MEEKNESS    OP    LOVE." 

"  Yes  he  is,  Miss  Kate,  honey !  'Deed  he  knows  all  aboul 
Jack's  'fection  for  him  !  High,  honey  3  ain't  Jack  been  own 
man  to  Marse  Archy  ever  since  they  was  boys  together ' 
An'  didn't  Jack  wait  on  him  when  he  wur  at  college,  and 
ole  Mist  pay  extra  for  him  ?  'Deed  she  did,  honey  !  'Fore 
my  blessed  Hebbenly  Lord,  did  she !  AnJ  he  knows  all 
'bout  Jack's  "fection  for  him,  and  he  knows  Jack  'ould  follow 
bim  to  the  ind  o'  the  world,  an'  jump  off  arter  him !  Lord 
love  your  heart,  Miss  Kate,  ther  ain't  no  dog  marster's  got, 
loves  him  more  faithful  'an  brother  Jack  does." 

Kate  sighed  very  deeply,  with  a  preoccupied  air,  but  an 
swered — 

"  I  will  speak  to  Major  Clifton  in  your  behalf,  Henny — 
now  go  and  ask  Mrs.  Mercer  to  come  to  me  in  my  own 
chamber." 

And  Catherine  passed  on  to  her  own  apartment,  and  Henny 
went  her  errand.  Very  soon  the  housekeeper  entered  the 
chamber,  and  found  Catherine  busily  engaged  among  linen, 
stockings,  cravats,  and  other  "  belongings." 

"  I  want  your  assistance,  Mrs.  Mercer,  in  preparing  Major 
Clifton's  wardrobe  this  week." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  am  so  sorry !  But  I  have  been  waiting 
for  an  hour  to  speak  to  you.  The  truth  is,  I  have  just  got 
a  letter  from  my  son-in-law,  who  writes  that  my  daughter  is 
very,  extremely  low,  with  the  bilious  pleurisy,  and  wants  me 

to  come  right  over  to  L immediately,  without  loss  of 

time,  and  I  thought  I  would  ask  you  for  a  leave  of  absence, 
till  she  got  better." 

"  And,  certainly,  I  could  not  refuse  it,  Mrs.  Mercer.  I  am 
sorry  your  daughter  is  ill." 

"  And,  my  dear  child,  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  could 
let  me  have  one  of  the  mules  this  morning,  and  I  would  send 
it  back  to-morrow  ?" 

"  The  weather  is  too  cold,  and  the  journey  too  arduous  for 
a  woman  of  your  age  to  perform  it  in  that  manner.  Tel1 
Dandy  to  put  the  horses  to  the  carriage  for  you." 

"  The  carriage,  dear  honey,  I  shouldn't  think  of  such  a 
thing.  As  many  years  as  I  have  been  living  in  the  family,  I 
never  used  the  carriage  once.  The  mule  will  do  very  well, 
if  you  will  let  me  order  him  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Mercer,  why  not  \  I  shall  not  want  it  to-day.  To 
morrow  Dandy  can  bring  it  home." 

*'  God  bless  you,  gMld !   vou  are  so  good  bearted '     It 


"THE    MEEKNESS    OF    LOVE/'          3x3 

is  a  sin   too  to  leave  you,  so  tLronged   as   you  are  with 
work." 

"No,  I  can  get — get  through,"  replied  Kate,  with  the 
same  troubled,  preoccupied  air  that  had  marked  her  manner 
the  whole  morning.  Mrs.  Mercer  soon  after  took  leav« 
and  departed. 

An  hour  after  this,  Catherine  heard  Major  Clifton  ente- 
the  hall  door  and  come  up  stairs.  To  her  surprise,  he  paused 
before  her  chamber  door  and  rapped.  When  she  opened  it, 
he  said — 

"  Will  you  favor  me  with  your  company  in  my  study  for  a 
few  minutes,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?" 

Catherine  immediately  laid  down  her  work  and  followed 
him. 

When  they  reached  the  study,  he  set  her  a  chair  neap 
the  writing-table,  and  dropping  into  another,  drew  a  port 
folio  before  him,  opened  it,  and  turning  out  a  number  of 
papers,  said — 

"  Mrs.  Clifton,  I  told  you,  some  weeks  since,  that  at  my 
departure,  and  during  my  indefinite  absence,  I  should  be 
obliged  to  leave  this  estate  under  your  charge  i" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Catherine  attentively. 

"  I  am  well  aware  that  it  is  undoubtedly  an  onerous  burden 
and  responsibility  for  one  so  young,  but,  when  you  feel  it  so, 
remember  that  youj,  yourself,  courted  the  position,  and  must 
be  content  to  take  the  toils  with  the  honors,  real  or  ima 
ginary." 

Passing  over  his  bitter  jibe,  Catherine  said — 

"  You  need  not  doubt  in  leaving  all  to  my  care  that  all 
will  go  well.  I  am  not  twenty  yet,  it  is  true,  but  I  have  had 
much  work  and  much  experience  for  my  age,  so  that  every 
year  I  have  lived  since  ten  years  old  has  counted  double. 
You  need  suffer  no  anxiety  in  trusting  me." 

He  looked  at  her  countenance,  at  once  noble  and  meek  in 
expression ;  he  remembered  the  life  of  toil,  self-denial,  and 
devotion  she  had  lived  ;  he  even  recollected  a  certain  text  of 
Scripture  which  said,  "By  tLair  fruits  ye  shall  know  them— 
do  men  gather  thorns  of  fig  trp.es  ?"  but  the  demon  of  chcr 
ished  suspicion  whispered,  "  'Twas  all  done  for  a  purpose," 
and  he  hardened  his  heart,  and  replied — 

"  Oh  '  madam,  T  have  no  doubt  or  hesitation  in  placing 
the  plantation  under  your  care,  and  I  shall  have  no  anxiety 
in  leaving  it  so  for  an  indefinite  period ;  not  only  because  1 


384  "THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE." 

have  much  faith  in  your  natural  talents  and  acquired  expe 
rience,  but,  also,  because  I  have  more  confidence  in  your 
self-love.  And  knowing  that  you  know  our  interests  in  the 
prosperity  of  this  estate  to  be  identical,  I  rest  assured  that 
you  will  do  for  it  your  very  best." 

«He — in  all  other  circumstances,  and  to  all  other  people — 
BO  noble,  so  liberal,  so  charitable — he  never  speaks  to  me 
but  to  upbraid  me !"  was  the  thought  that  presented  itselt 
to  Catherine's  mind,  but  with  the  loyalty  of  her  nature  she 
repelled  it,  saying,  within  herself,  "  It  is  because  he  has  what 
he  thinks  condemning  evidence  of  my  unworthiness — would 
he  but  charge  me !  would  he  but  tell  me  what  it  is  V 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  attention,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?"  he 
asked,  breaking  into  her  sad  reverie. 

Catherine  bowed  gently. 

And  he  took  down  the  "  farm-book"  from  a  shelf,  opened 
it,  and  laying  it  before  her,  entered  upon  a  series  of  details 
and  explanations  on  both  debt  and  credit  sides  of  the  ac 
counts,  with  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  trouble  the  reader. 
After  two  or  three  hours  spent  in  looking  over  bills,  com 
paring  them  with  receipts,  calculating  results,  etc.,  he-  closed 
the  book,  replaced  the  papers  in  the  portfolio,  clasped  it,  and 
turning  around  to  Catherine,  said — 

"You  understand,  now?" 

"  Yes,  perfectly." 

"  As  for  these  heavy  notes  that  will  fall  due  the  first  of 
January,  you  must  contrive  an  interview  with  the  holders, 
and  get  them  renewed  upon  security— as  I  said  before,  re 
member." 

"  I  shall  not  forget." 

"  No,  or  if  you  do,  the  holders  of  the  notes  will  bring 
them  to  your  recollection  in  not  the  pleasantest  manner.  And 
now,  Mrs.  Clifton,  I  wish  you  to  keep  a  vigilant  eye  over 
Turnbull,  and  hold  him  to  a  strict  account.  I  suspect  the 
man.  I  never  have  been  able  to  understand  how,  with  such 
a  heavy  force  of  negroes  on  this  plantation,  it  has  been  neces- 
Bary  to  hire  about  a  baker's  dozen  of  white  laborers,  all  of 
them,  you  understand,  his  own  relations — brothers,  sons, 
and  nephews !  I  have  reason  to  mistrust  the  fellow,  but 
no  time  to  look  after  "him.  Hold  him  to  a  strict  account, 
Catherine." 
.  "Suppose,  for  the  coming  year,  you  should  place  mj 


"THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE.'  383 

brother  Carl  here  as  overseer  ?  You  have  tested  his  skill 
and  probity." 

Tliis  was  a  very  unlucky  proposition  on  Catherine's  part. 
He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  looking  at  her  in  steady  scorn, 
said — 

»c  Yes,  madam,  I  have  *  tested  his  skill  and  probity,'  and 
know  so  well  the  degree  of  the  former,  and  the  quality  of  the 
latter,  that  I  have  already  forbid  him  to  set  foot  on  my  pre 
mises  or  speak  to  my  wife.  Do  you  dare  to  think  that  I  am 
your  dupe,  or  his  ?  And  now,  hear  me  :  In  all  the  directions 
that  I  have  given  you,  I  have  simply  desired  or  requested 
you  to  do  this  or  that,  but  in  this  matter  of  your  perfidious 
brother  Carl,  I  command  you  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  him 
whatever/*' 

"You  bhall  be  obeyed,"  said  Catherine,  "you  shall  bo 
obeyed,"  and  she  thought — "  Your  simplest  wish,  expressed 
to  that  effect,  would  have  had  all  the  power  of  this  arbitrary 
command," — but  she  did  not  say  it.  She  was  neve*r  free  of 
speech,  least  of  all  to  him.  And  now  he  arose,  as  if  to  con 
clude  the  interview.  And  she  recollected  her  promise  to 
Henny,  to  intercede  for  Jack,  and  always  more  courageous 
in  the  cause  of  any,  even  the  humblest,  than  in  her  own,  she 
gently  detained  him,  by  saying — "  I  wished  to  speak  to  you 
about  the  servant  you  intend  to  take  with  you." 

"Jack?" 

"  Yes.  You  were  not  home  last  winter,  and  you  do  no< 
know  that  he  was  sick  with  a  cough  the  whole  winter,  and 
that  he  is  consumptive." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought  so,  however  !     Well  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  feel  that  it  is  properly  no  business  of  mine,  and 
I  beg  you  will  excuse  my  interference.  I  would  not  willingly, 
[  am  sure — " 

"  To  the  point,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Clifton." 

"  Well,  I  am  afraid  that  if  you  take  him,  and  expose  him 
to  the  unavoidable  hardships  of  campaign  life,  he  will  fall 
sick  on  your  hands,  and  instead  of  being  a  help,  be  a  hind 
rance.  Therefore  it  is  much  more  for  your  sake  than  for  the 
boy's  own,  that  I  should  be  pleased  if  you  would  leave  him 
here  and  take  another." 

"  There  is  much  reason  in  what  you  have  advanced,  Mrs. 
Clifton.  Yet,  among  all  the  negroes  on  the  place,  there  is 
acme  but  Jack  who  seems  fit  for  the  duty,  the  others  are  ali 


386  "THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE." 

too  young  or  too  old,  or  too  hopelessly  stupid  and  lumber 


ing." 

"  There  is  Dandy,  a  handsome,  likely  mulatto,  strong  and 
intelligent,  dressy  and  enterprising,  the  very  man  for  an 
officer's  servant  j  he  would  be  very  proud  and  glad  to  attend 
you." 

"  Oh  !  ay  !  I  know  that  he  is  anxious  to  go  ;  but  he  is 
your  carriage-driver  and  waiter,  Catherine,  and  I  cannot 
think  of  depriving  you  of  him."^ 

"  There  are  other  careful  drivers  on  the  place.  Please 
take  him  with  you." 

«  Yes but  those  other  careful  drivers  are  awkward,  ill- 
looking,  farm-laborers,  accustomed  to  driving  and  hallooing 
after  ox-teams  " 

"  Have  I  been  so  long  used  to  a  carriage,  as  to  be  choice 
m  my  coachman,  then  ?  Please  do  not  think  of  that." 

"  And  then  he  is  your  waiter  and  messenger." 

"  Oh,  believe  me,  I  do  not  need  him.  Pray  take  him 
•vith  you.  He  is  so  active,  intelligent  and  faithful,  that  he 
will  be  of  inestimable  value  to  you  in  the  campaign." 

"  It  is  precisely  because  he  is  so  active,  intelligent  and 
faithful,  that  I  am  unwilling  to  deprive  you  of  his  services, 
Catherine — I  beg  your  pardon — Mrs.  Clifton"  he  corrected 
himself,  suddenly  changing  his  involuntarily  relenting  man 
ner  into  the  old  sarcasm  and  scorn. 

"  Oh,  call  me  Catherine,  please  call  me  Catherine,"  she 
said,  losing  half  her  reserve. 

"  Why  ?     Do  you  dislike  the  other  name  ?" 

"  No — I  like  it.  I  am  proud  of  it — not  because  it  is  a 
high,  haughty  name,  but  because  it  is  yours.  When  other 
people  call  me  c  Mrs.  Clifton,'  my  heart  springs  with  pride 
and  joy,  but  when  you  call  me  so — " 

"  Ah,  now,  do  not  let  us  grow  sentimental,  madam !  I 
prefer  to  call  you  Mrs.  Clifton  because  I  think  that  the  fan 
cied  dignity  for  which  you  have  toiled  and  plotted  so  long, 
urd  patiently,  and  successfully,  should  be  constantly  brought 
to  your  mind." 

With  a  deprecating,  imploring  gesture,  and  a  brow  crim 
soned  until  the  purple  veins  started  out,  Catherine,  pierced 
by  this  keen  sarcasm,  sank  into  a  chair. 
Unpityingly,  he  added — 
*•  And  now,  Mrs.  Clifton,  I  really  must  entreat  you  to 


"THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE."  887 

excuse  me.  1  expect  Turnbull  here,  every  instant,  to  have 
a  talk  about  the  stock." 

Catherine  arose,  trembling,  and  left  the  room  ;  one  ago 
nized  complaint  bursting  from  her  tortured  bosom — 

"  Oh,  I  would  to  Heaven  this  were  over — some  way !" 

He  looked  after  her,  with  a  countenance  convulsed  with 
Borrow,  groaning — 

"  And  so  would  I!  And  so  would  I  to  God  that  this 
were  over — somehow!  Oh!"  he  thought,  rising  again,  and 
pacing  the  floor — "  there  is  nothing  in  life  so  humiliating  to 
an  honorable-minded  man,  as  to  love  and  live  with  a  perfi 
dious  woman — to  be  daily  tempted  by  his  own  heart  and  her 
blandishment,  to  become  her  dupe  and  his  own  scorn !  To 
be  hourly  on  the  brink  of  clasping  just  so  much  proved 
treachery  as  her  form  conceals,  to  a  half  loving,  half  loath 
ing  bosom  !  Serpents  !  Yes,  I  dreamed  of  a  serpent,  last 
night : — methought  I  was  in  the  forests  of  Brazil,  and  the 
fatal  cobra-di-capello  had  coiled  itself  around  my  neck,  and 
raised  its  horrid  head  to  mine,  and  I  went  to  snatch  the 
deadly  reptile  away,  and  found  it  to  be  only  Catherine's 
gentle  arms  and  noble  face.  Devils !  Never  did  a  demon 
hide  itself  under  a  more  deceptive  form  and  face  ! — with  that 
saint-like  blending  of  nobility  and  meekness  in  her  counte 
nance.  Every  time  she  talks  with  me,  she  brings  me  to  the 
very  brink  of  abjuring  ray  sincere  convictions.  I  must  get 
away  from  this  place,  or  my  mind  will  become  unsettled,  de 
ranged.  I  must  hasten  my  departure,  and  in  the  meantime, 
she  shall  not  talk  with  me  again.  She  shall  not  cross  the 
threshold  of  this  room  again,  or  if  she  does,  she  shall  meet 
with  such  a  reception  that  she  shall  speedily  retire."  And 
so,  torn  with  passion,  he  walked  and  raved,  while  Catherine 
Bought  her  room,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  giving 
way  to  a  burst  of  tears  and  sobs,  and  crying,  in  wild  rebel 
lion —  „ 

"  God  !  Oh,  God  !•  Infinite  in  power  and  love — do  You 
sec  me  ?  Do  You  see  me,  and  withhold  Your  help  ?  Oh, 
lod!  God!"  But  soon  upon  her  fevered  spirit  fell  the 
"vord  of  the  Lord  like  dew — "  All  things  work  together  for 
good,  to  them  that  love  the  Lord."  And  full  of  penitence 
for  her  impatience,  she  knelt,  and  humbled  herself  <;  under 
the  mighty  hand  of  God."  And  then,  comforted  with  love 
and  hope,  strengthened  wi'.h  faith  and  courage,  she  arose, 
tn  J  went  aWxit  her  work. 


388  "THE    MEEKNESS    OF    LOVE" 

Meeting  Henny  soon  after,  she  told  her  to  be  consoled,  foi 
that  she  thought  Jack  would  be  let  off. 

In  the  afternoon  she  received  a  pencilled  note  from  Major 
Clifton,  announcing  that  he  should  leave  home  three  days 
sooner  than  he  had  anticipated,  namely,  on  the  third  day 
from  that  date.  Leaning  against  the  projecting  chimney- 
piece,  she  held  the  note,  stupidly  gazing  at  it.  But  two 
days  were  left  before  he  should  depart  then — she  thought— 
and  he  was  going,  really  going  upon  a  long  and  perilous  mili 
tary  service,  and  parting  with  her  in  deep,  unmitigated  angor, 
under  the  seemingly  ineffaceable  impression  of  her  utter  un- 
worthiness — believing  her  to  be  guilty  of — what  ?  ay  !  what '{ 
for  up  to  this  moment  she  had  not  the  slighest  idea  of  his 
reason  for  condemning  her.  And  now  she  blamed  herself 
for  cowardice,  in  having  hesitated  to  entreat  him  to  inform 
her  of  what  fault  or  crime  she  was  suspected,  and  to  give 
her  the  opportunity  of  exculpating  herself.  And  she  re 
proached  herself  for  that  failing  of  the  heart,  and  falling  of 
the  eyes,  and  faltering  of  the  voice,  that  made  her  so  power 
less,  and  placed  her  at  such  a  disadvantage  in  his  presence. 
"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  she  said,  "  I  know  my  manner  is  enough 
to  convict  me  ;  I  do  not  wonder  at  nor  blame  him  for  think 
ing  ill  of  me,  so  long  as  my  eyes  sink  beneath  his  look. 
But  how  can  I  help  it.  It  must  be  so  while  he  frowns  or 
sneers.  One  encouraging  word  or  glance  from  him,  and  I 
?ould  look  up  and  speak."  And  next  she  remembered  how 
much  he  must  suffer  in  continuing  to  think  her  unworthy, 
and  in  departing  under  that  impression — and  at  this  thought, 
all  that  was  most  generous  and  benevolent  in  her  nature 
arose  to  inspire  her  with  courage,  and  she  resolved  to  go  to 
him,  and,  though  heart  and  frame  should  tremble  to  meet 
that  dread  look  of  stern  sorrow  or  piercing  scorn — to  perse 
vere  in  imploring  him  to  tell  her  with  what  crime  she  stood 
charged. 

But  though  she  had  determined  upon  this  act,  it  was 
extremely  difficult  to  perform  it.  All  the  afternoon  and 
evening  he  came  and  went  in  such  hurry,  and  seemed  so 
entrenched  behind  his  own  private  thoughts  and  purposes 
that  she  feared  to  break  in  upon  his  reserve.  Once  indeed 
for  the  purpose  of  speaking  to  him  upon  the  subject,  she 
entered  his  study,  and  stood  by  the  table  ;  but  he  turned 
around,  drew  himself  up,  sat  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked 
•a j-on  her  wifh  such  sarcastic  arrogance,  taat,  abashed  and 


"THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE."  889 

confounded,  without  opening  her  lips  she  turned  and  left  tho 
room. 

And  so  the  afternoon  and  evening  passed,  and  the  next 
day,  the  last  of  his  stay,  arrived.  All  day  Catherine  sought 
an  opportunity  of  speaking  with  him  alone.  In  vain  !  Ho 
was  resolved  to  afford  her  none.  He  sedulously  avoided  her. 
As  a  last  resort  she  wrote  a  note,  requesting  an  interview, 
and  sent  it  to  him.  She  received  an  answer  stating  that  his 
time  for  the  day  was  all  pre-engaged.  And  so  this  last  day 
also  passed.  That  night  she  completed  her  part  in  the  pre 
parations  for  his  departure,  and  retired  late  to  a  sleepless 
bed.  She  heard  him  come  in  very  late,  and  enter  his  room, 
which  joined  her  own. 

At  early  dawn  she  arose  and  looked  at  the  time-picco  on 
her  chamber  mantle-shelf.  It  was  but  five  o'clock.  He 
was  not  to  leave  till  ten.  There  were  five  precious  hours 
left  yet.  And  oh !  how  inestimably  precious,  if  in  them  she 
could  effect  a  reconciliation  with  her  husband.  They  were 
like  the  last  hours  of  a  dying  one,  with  salvation  staked  upon 
them.  She  felt  that  the  crisis  had  come,  that  she  must  not 
falter  now.  She  knelt  and  prayed  for  strength  and  courage, 
as  we  only  pray  a  few  times  in  life — with  that  impassioned 
earnestness  of  supplication  that  ever  brings  an  angel  down 
M  strengthening"  us.  Then,  encouraged,  she  arose,  completed 
her  simple  toilet,  and  went  down  stairs  to  her  morning  duties. 
The  breakfast  hour  was  seven.  And  oh,  she  watched  the 
clock  as  she,  unjustly  condemned  to  death,  might  watch  in 
the  last  fleeting  hours  preceding  execution — hoping,  still 
hoping  for  some  saving  revelation.  A  little  while  after  seven 
he  came  down  stairs,  entered  the  breakfast-room,  and  bowing 
with  his  usual  cold  greeting  of — 

"  Good-morning,  madam,"  sat  down: 

She  rang  for  the  coifee,  and  then  took  her  place  at  the 
head  of  the  table. 

He  went  through  with  the  morning  meal,  with  his  cus 
tomary,  reflective  leisure.  And  Catherine  watched  the  hand 
of  the  clock,  as  it  traveled  on  towards  eight.  She  was  sick 
with  apprehension.  She  could  not  speak  to  him  there,  for 
the  servants  were  in  attendance.  At  last  he  arose,  left  the 
table,  and  went  out  to  give  some  final  directions  concerning 
his  baggage,  and  the  horses  and  servants  he  was  to  take  with 
Lira.  And  then  he  went  up  stairs  and  entered  his  study.  It 
was  just  eight  o'clock,  and  she  had  two  invaluable  hours  left 


390  "THE    MEEKNESS    OF    LOVE." 

pet.  As  if  life  and  death  hung  upon  their  issue,  she  rtsolv 
eouie  what  might,  to  use  them  in  a  final  effort  for  a  recon 
filiation.  Pale  and  trembling  in  every  limb,  she  left  thfl 
table,  and  went  up  stairs,  slowly,  holding  by  the  balustrades 
:rom  weakness.  When  she  reached  the  study-door  she  found 
>+  ajar,  and  through  it  she  saw  him  sitting  at  his  writing- 
table — not  busy,  as  she  had  feared  and  expected  to  find  him, 
b  it  doing  absolutely  nothing — with  his  elbows  resting  on  the 
table,  and  his  face  buried  in  the  palms  of  his  hands — in  the 
attitude  arid  expression  of  the  deepest  sorrow  and  despair. 
That  one  glimpse  of  his  suffering  face,  sufficed  to  drive  every 
fear  but  that  of  anxious  affection  from  her  heart — "  It  is  be 
cause  he  thinks  me  unworthy.  I  must  not  leave  him  to  chink 
so  longer.  Be  strong,  coward  heart,"  she  said,  to  herself, 
and  then  she  went  in  and  stood  beside  his  chair,  resting  her 
hand,  for  support,  upon  the  table,  trembling  with  nervoua 
weakness,  and  blushing  with  the  bashfulness  she  could  not 
but  feel  in  making  this  advance,  and  altogether,  in  his  sus 
picious  eyes,  looking  very  much  like  a  conscious  culprit.  Sho 
stood,  unable  to  utter  one  word,  until  he  lifted  up  his  head, 
and  seeing  her,  demanded  coldly — 

*«  What  is  your  pleasure,  Mrs.  Clifton  ?" 

She  attempted  to  speak,  but  a  mute  sob  was  all  that 
/nsued. 

With  a  piercing  sarcasm,  he  asked — 

"  Can  I  serve  you  in  any  manner  this  morning,  madam  ?" 

With  a  gesture  of  deprecation  and  entreaty,  she  an 
swered — 

"  Yes !  yes  !  I  wish  to  be  put  upon  my  trial !  Archer ! — 
Major  Clifton  !  you  withdrew  your  favor  from  me  so  suddenly! 
You  never  told  me  why !  Oh  !  tell  me,  before  you  go,  how 
1  have  been  so  wretched  as  to  lose  your  esteem — and  jut 
me  upon  my  defence." 

lie  frowned,  darkly,  as  with  both  pain  and  anger,  and  re 
plied — 

"  I  have  had  occasion  twice  before  to  remind  you,  Mrs, 
Clifton,  that  this  is  a  prohibited  subject  of  conversation  be- 
^ween  us." 

She  clasped  her  hands,-  in  the  earnestness  of  supplication, 
3xclaiming — 

"  Why  ?  Oh  !  why  l  You  were  always  just.  You  never 
•  judged  your  poorest  slave,  unheard  !  Oh  !  what  have  I  done, 
3r  omitted  to  da  *•  Tell  me!  Make  the  charge,  ~:id  see 


"THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LO\E."  Syi 

how  I  can  answer  it!  Archer! — I  mean  Major  Clifton- - 
forgive  it — but  for  all,  it  springs  so  naturally  from  heart  to 
lip,  to  call  you  Archer — because — because  there  is  no  feeling 
of  estrangement  in  ray  heart,  nor  can  I  make  it  there !  Major 
Clifton,  then  ! — consider  ! — the  greatest  criminals  have  the 
right  of  a  trial,  with  the  crime  of  which  they  are  suspected, 
distinctly  and  openly  charged  upon  them — with  the  evidence 
on  both  sides  taken,  and  their  defence  heard,  before  they  are 
condemned.  I  kriow  that  you  would  not  be  otherwise 
than  just.  Will  you  condemn  me  untried,  unjudged,  un 
heard  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  sufficient  to  me,  madam,"  he  answered, 
haughtily,  «  that  the  proofs  of  your  turpitude  are  conclusive 
to  my  own  mind.'' 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said,  meekly,  "  I  know  it — yet,  pause — 
what  would  you*  think  of  the  justice  of  a  judge,  who  should 
say  to  one  suspected  of  crime — (  Your  guilt  is  so  clear,  that 
it  is  useless  to  charge  you  with  it,  or  to  hear  the  testimony, 
or  to  listen  to  what  you  might  have  to  say  in  your  defence,' 
and  so  proceed  to  condemn  him  ?  Such  things  were  never, 
surely,  done,  in  the  darkest  ages,  or  under  the  most  despotic 
rulers.  And  is  that  guilt,  of  which  I  am  suspected,  of  so 
heinous  a  character  as  to  preclude  me  from  the  privilege  ex 
tended  even  to  criminals — the  privilege  of  a  trial  ?"  She 
paused — but  he  continued  to  regard  her  with  a  stern,  set  face, 
without  replying.  Drooping  over  the  table,  and  leaning 
heavily  upon  it,  she  spoke  again,  and  her  voice  fell  in  low, 
but  clear,  melodious  tones,  as  she  said — "  God  and  man, 
and  I,  myself,  have  made  you  my  judge,  and  the  arbiter  of 
my  destiny  here.  It  is  an  awful  power.  You  have  made  me 
feel  it  to  be  such.  It  is  an  awful  power,  because  it  is  a  sub 
tile,  invisible  power — higher,  and  deeper,  and  broader  thnn 
any  law.  I  have  no  appeal  from  it — none !  Nor — please  to 
understand  me — do  I  wish  for  any— for  if  all  the  world  were 
to  clear  me,  I  should  still  be  condemned,  if  you  condemned 
me.  And  oh !  listen,  and  believe  me— believe  me,  for  it  is 
from  my  deep  heart  that  I  speak  this  truth — if  you  had  the 
power  and  the  will  to  doom  me  to  death — my  instincts  would 
teach  me  rather  to  receive  death  at  your  hands,  than  to  savo 
my  life  by  appealing  from  your  judgment  to  another  tribunal. 
I  am  loyal.  I  am  faithful '  God'knoweth  that  I  am.  Let 
me  prove  it.  Put  me  upon  my  defence.  Do  not—  ohs  dn 
aot  persist  in  cordemning  me,  unheard." 


392  "THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LO\E.'' 

"  Catherine,"  lie  answered,  in  a  softened  voice — "you  are 
not  condemned ;  if  you  were,  you  would  not  be  standing  here 
at  my  side." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  good  Heaven  !" 

"  THIS,"  he  replied  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner,  05 
though  angry  with  himself  for  his  transient  relenting.  "  This ! 
that  oftentimes  it  happens  that  the  only  mercy  we  can  show 
the  guilty,  is  not  to  bring  them  to  trial !  To  openly  recog 
nize  guilt,  is  to  be  obliged  to  punish  it.  If  we  distinctly 
accuse,  we  are  bound  to  prove,  and  if  we  prove,  to  condemn 
and  sentence." 

'•  Ac  1  is  my  case  such  a  one  ?" 

c  Yc  ir  case  is  such  a  one." 

"  Yet  still  I  beg  to  be  tried !  For  if  not  to  try  them  is 
flften  the  only  way  to  save  the  guilty,  to  try  them  is 
oftener  the  only  way  to  clear  the  innocent.  Accuse  me — 
hear  my  defence,  and  be  yourself  my  judge.  I  ask  no 
other." 

"  Of  what  avail  were  it  to  rehearse  your  acts  of  falsehood 
and  treachery.  You  know  them  this  moment  even  better 
than  I  do." 

"Falsehood  and  treachery — just  Heaven!" 

"  Yes,  madam,  those  were  the  words  I  used." 

"  You  are  mistaken  in  attributing  such  wickedness  to  we 
but  tell  me  the  grounds  of  your  suspicions ;  doubtless  I  can 
explain  them,  and  clear  myself." 

He  laughed  a  scornful,  sardonic  laugh,  and  replied,  "  Oh, 
doubtless  a  woman  of  your  diplomatic  genius  is  fertile  in  ex 
planations.  Whether  you  could  by  possibility  clear  yourself, 
is  another  question ;  for  I  speak — not  of  suspicions  but  of 
positive  knowledge." 

His  strong  conviction  of  her  turpitude  infected  her  with 
despair  at  last.  She  said,  very  mournfully — 

"  I  know  that  it  has  sometimes  happened  that  the  innocent 
have  been  tried  and  convicted — overwhelmed  by  a  mass  of 
circumstantial  evidence — and  that  may  be  my  case ;  never 
theless,  even  they  have  had  the  poor  satisfaction  of  knowing 
for  what  they  suffered.  Tell  me,  I  beseech  you.  I  will  still 
hope  that  I  can  acquit  .myself.  Not  for  my  own  sake, 
Archer,  dear  Archer — but  for  yours  :  it  must  be  so  agonizing 
to  be  forced  to  think  ill  of  one  we  have  loved  as  you  once 
loved  me.  I  suffer  very  much  in  the  loss  of  your  esteem , 
but  were  it  possi1  ]e  fo>  our  cases  to  be  reversed — 


"THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE."  893 

forced  to  think  evil  of  you,  I  do  not  know,  indeed  I  do  not 
know  how  I  could  go  on  with  daily  life  at  all !" 

"  I  think  you  had  better  cease  discoursing  and  retire  / 
your  diplomatic  talent  is  not  in  high  action  this  morning ;  you 
permit  your  words  to  betray  you." 

"To  betray  me  !" 

"Yes,  madam;  for  if  you  felt  yourself  to  be  innocent, 
would  you  not  necessarily  think  very  ill  of  me  for  treating 
you  as  a  guilty  woman  ?" 

"  No !  -no !  I  know  that  to  have  condemned  me  so 
promptly,  so  unequivocally,  you  must  have,  what  you  think, 
proof  positive  against  me.  But  produce  it !  I  am  innocent; 
indeed  I  am,  Archer.  I  believe  in  Heaven's  justice.  I  be 
lieve  that  if  I  call  on  the  Lord,  He  will  sooner  or  later,  in  His 
own  good  time,  enable  me  to  prove  it." 

"  I  will  produce  the  testimony,"  he  said,  going  to  an 
escritoir,  opening  it  and  taking  from  it  a  note  in  a  gray  en 
velope,  lieturning  to  his  seat,  he  laid  it  before  her,  asking 
"  Is  this  your  handwriting  ?" 

Catherine  glanced  at  it — it  was  the  envelope  she  had 
directed  to  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton,  and  she  immediately 
answered — 

"  Yes,  certainly  it  is." 

"  Ah  !  it  is  ;  when  was  it  written  ?" 

"  The  last  day  of  your  dear  mother's  life.  Ah  !  now  I  re 
member,  it  was  from  that  day  you  took  your  favor  from  me." 

"  Yes,  madam,"  he  said,  withdrawing  the  fatal  note  from 
the  envelope,  and  laying  it  before  her,  adding,  "  Do  you  ac 
knowledge  this  as  your  writing  also  ?" 

Catherine  looked  at  the  note  without  heeding  the  words, 
and  raising  her  innocent  eyes  with  wonder  to  his  face,  an- 
'swered,  without  an  instant's  hesitation — 

"  Yes,  assuredly,  that  is  mine  !" 

Her  perfect  unconsciousness  should  have  convinced  him  of 
her  innocence — would  have  done  so  perhaps,  but  that,  pre 
judiced  against  her,  he  took  her  manner  to  be  super-refined 
art ;  and  determined  to  force  her  to  the  point,  he  said — 

"  Would  you  swear  it  ?" 

Catherine  took  up  the  letter  and  examined  it. 

«  Ay  !  read  it,  read  it." 

Catherine  read  the  note,  turned  deadly  pale,  fell  back  in 
her  chair,  and  let  the  paper  drop  from  her  hands — over 
whelmed  by  the  enormous  wickedness  of  the  forgery.  Scarcely 


394  "THE     MEEKNESS    ^F    LOVE." 

restraining  a  bitter  curse,  he  picked  up  the  fatal  note,  pushed 
the  door  open  with  his  foot,  crossed  the  hall,  and  entered  his 
bed-chamber,  banging  the  door  after  him. 

One  stunned  moment  she  sat  thus,  then  started  to  her  feet, 
bewildered,  distracted,  and  with  a  wild  impulse,  fled  across 
the  hall  and  into  his  chamber,  and  sank  at  his  feet  speech 
less,  mute,  but  catching  his  hand,  and  clinging  to  it.  When 
she  struggled  and  recovered  her  voice,  she  exclaimed, 
simply — 

"  I  did  not  write  that  letter,  Archer.  I  did  not  write  that 
letter." 

He  twisted  his  hand  rudely  out  of  her  grasp,  and  turned 
away,  without  reply. 

She  clasped  her  hands  earnestly,  exclaiming  again — 

"  I  did  not  write  that  letter !  It  is  impossible,  I  ever 
nhould  have  conceived,  much  less  have  written  such  a  letter! 
I  do  not  know  who  wrote  it.  I  never  laid  my  eyes  on  it 
before!" 

An  incredulous,  insulting  smile,  was  his  reply. 

"  Oh  !  what  shall  I  say  to  convince  you  ?  Indeed,  indeed 
I  did  not  do  it !" 

"  Come,  perjure  yourself !     Swear  it." 

She  was  silent. 

"  I  ask  you  to  swear  it." 

She  was  still  silent. 

"  Come,  now — will  you  declare  upon  oath  that  you  did  not 
write  that  letter  ?" 

"God  sees  me!     I  did  not!" 

"  That's  no  oath  !  Here's  the  New  Testam-ent,  swear  upon 
the  Holy  Evangelists  of  Almighty  God  that  you  didn't  write 
it,  and,  perhaps,  I  will  believe  you,  for  well  I  know  that  many 
unprincipled  people  have  a  sort  of  fearful  respect  for  an  oath, 
which  in  them  is  not  piety,  but  superstition.  I  think  you  just 
such  a  one  !  Come,  now,  swear  that  you  did  not  write  it!?> 
Fie  paused  for  an  answer,  but  she  looked  at  him  in  grsat 
trouble.  «  Will  you  do  it  i" 

"  Major  Clifton,  I  cannot !" 

"  Not  swear  that  you  did  not  write  it  ?" 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Then  that  only  confirms  and  seals  the  truth  of  what 
Knew  before,  that,  of  course,  you  did  write  it." 

She  wrung  her  hands  in  deep  distress,  and  said — 

"I  cannot  swear,  .Archer.     I  mean  I  date  not  swear. 


"THE     MEEKNESS     OF     LOVE."  39$ 

Archer,  even  to  prove  my  innocence,  and  get  back  youi 
love." 

"  And  why,  pray  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  mocking  smile. 

"  Oh,  Archer  !  my  Lord  and  yours  has  commanded  us  to 
'Swear  not  at  all.'  I  dare  not  break  that  command." 

"  Tush,  girl,  you  are  clumsy.  Do  you  presume  to  think 
1  can  be  duped  by  that  affectation  of  super-righteousness  *" 

"  Oh,  Heaven  !  Oh,  Heaven  '  what  shall  I  do  V  said  Ca 
therine,  in  despair. 

**  Swear,  and  I  will  believe  you,"  he  answered,  mockingly. 

"  Oh !  why  will  not  my  simple  word  do  ?  Oh  !  do  you 
think  I  would  tell  a  falsehood  even  to  save  my  life  ?" 

"  Do  I  ?  Does  not  an  astute  diplomatist,  like  you,  know 
that  7  know  a  woman  who  can  be  false,  treacherous,  hypo 
critical  ; — who,  so  young,  can  plot  so  well,  and  succeed  so 
entirely  ; — can  also  tell  a  falsehood  to  conceal  her  baseness  ?" 
he  answered,  looking  down  upon  her  in  insufferable  scorn. 

Then  her  whole  manner  changed.  She  arose  to  her  feet 
with  a  certain  calm  and  gentle  dignity,  and  pushing  back  the 
veiling  tresses  from  her  noble  brow,  answered  nobly — 

"  Yes,  it  is  true  !  If  I  could  have  conceived  such  trea 
chery,  and  written  such  a  letter  as  that,  I  could  also  have 
!ied  to  conceal  it !  There  is  only  one  on  earth  that  knows 
my  innocence,  the  writer  of  that  letter.  But  one  in  Heaven 
knows  it,  and  He  will  make  it  manifest.  I  believe  in  mira 
cles,  because  I  believe  in  the  infinite  power  and  goodness  of 
God,  and  in  the  everlasting  promises  of  the  Bible." 

"  Well  done,  Maria  Teresa  !  really  that  is  the  best  of  all ! 
[ndeed,  your  talents  are  quite  lost  upon  such  unworthy  game 
as  me  and  my  poor  estate — good-bye  !"  And  laughing  bit 
terly,  he  left  the  room,  and  hurried  down  stairs.  A  few 
minutes  after  she  heard  the  clock  strike  ten — then  she  arose 
and  went  to  the  window  to  look  out.  He  stood  upon  the 
lawn,  in  riding  gear,  near  a  group  consisting  of  his  servant 
Dandy,  and  three  saddle-horses.  She  saw  him  vault  into  his 
waddle,  and  ride  away,  attended  by  Dandy,  mounted  on  one 
horse  and  leading  another.  As  he  passed  the  outer  gate, 
one  look  of  love,  sorrow,  and  despair,  he  turned  towards  her 
window,  and  then  vanished  into  the  forest  road. 

She  did  not  see  that  look — she  could  not  have  seen  it  at 
that  distance ;  she  saw  that  he  was  gone,  and  turning  from 
the  window,  she  sank  down  upon  the  carpet  in  the  collapse 
of  deepest  sorrow. 


396  "THE     MEEKNESS     OF    LOVE." 

Gone!  He  was  gone !  His  presence  that  had  made  afl 
suffering  tolerable  was  withdrawn,  and  the  place  was  empty-  • 
life  itself  was  empty. 

He  was  gone — £*one — not  lovingly,  after  a  lingering,  ten 
der  leave-taking — that  would  have  been  sorrowful  enough ; 
nut  it  would  have  been  cheered  by  the  promise  of  frequent 
interchange  of  letters,  and  the  anticipation  of  re-union  ;  how 
much  more  sorrowful  this  utter  separation  ! 

Gone  !  gone !  not  in  anger-  that  would  have  been  bitter 
indeed  ;  but  it  would  have  been  sweetened  by  hope  that  an 
ger  would  subside,  that  reflection  would  come,  and  reconcilia 
tion  ensue  ;  but  how  much  bitterer  this  hopeless  disunion. 

Gone  in  scorn  !  Gone  in  loathing !  Gone  to  return  no 
more  but  as  a  stranger  !  Oh,  insupportable  grief !  Oh,  hope 
less  anguish !  Oh,  despair! 

A  few  short  weeks  ago  the  heaven  of  her  life  had  been  so 
serene,  so  divinely  serene,  and  her  soul  had  reflected  back 
the  beautiful  "  great  calm,"  as  a  still  ]ake  the  clear  sky. 

Now  all  was  changed  !  Now  all  was  clouds  and  storm  and 
darkness  !  A  howling  wilderness  around  !  A  howling  tem 
pest  overhead !  And  her  soul  answered  back  the  tempestuous 
discord  of  life,  as  the  storm- tossed  ocean,  the  storm-lowered 
sky  !  All  was  confusion  distraction,  chaos  ! 

Wild  impulses — suggestions  of  the  fiend — darted  meteor- 
like  athwart  her  mind: — to  fly — to  go  away  and  leave  a 
place,  where  she  had  been  brought  a  bride,  full  of  love  and 
hope  and  trust,  and  where  every  feeling  of  womanly  pride 
and  delicacy  had  been  ruthlessly,  insultingly  trampled  in  the 
dust ! 

But  simultaneously  with  this  suggestion,  arose  the  instinct 
of  the  wife,  and  the  inspiration  of  the  Christian,  teaching  hey 
that  scorned  and  outraged  as  she  had  been,  her  only  post  of 
duty  as  of  hope,  was  her  husband's  home.  Yes,  amid  all  tha 
gloom  and  terror,  she  caught  this  one  glimpse  of  Heavea 
Amid  all  the  clash  and  clang  of  passion  and  de,rpair>  sLi 
heard  this  voice  of  God. 


CATHERINE'S    REGENCY  an? 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

CATHERINE'S  REGENCY. 


But  a  trouble  weighed  upon  her, 
And  perplexed  her  nijrht  and  morn, 

With  the  burden  of  a  station 
Unto  which  she  was  not  born. — TENNYSOTJ 


SLOWLY,  very  slowly  Catherine  recovered  from  the  shocfc 
ef  that  bitter  parting.  And  then  she  felt,  so  lonely — so  deso 
late  ;  no  mother — no  sister — no  bosom  friend,  to  give  Iiei 
one  comforting  look  of  sympathy,  or  one  sustaining  word  of 
affection.  And  she  mourned  afresh  the  loss  of  that  dear, 
sympathising,  maternal  friend,  always  so  ready  in  her  loving 
wisdom,  always  so  ready  in  any  trial  or  affliction  to  give 
counsel  and  comfort.  And,  oh !  Catherine  needed  these — 
for,  like  the  black,  scudding  fragments  of  clouds  left  by  the 
tempest,  dark,  despairing  thoughts  drifted  through  her  mind. 
Yes,  she  had  need,  and  profoundly  felt  that  need,  of  counsel 
and  comfort  in  this  bewildering  sorrow  ;  but  of  whom  coultf 
she  seek  it  ?  Of  none — of  none  must  she  seek  it.  The  true 
wife's  instinct  taught  her  that.  For  even  when  the  retrospec 
tive  image  of  his  dead  mother,  her  own  beloved  bosom  friend, 
recurred  in  the  shape  of  a  once  possible  mediator  between 
herself  and  husband,  her  mind  intuitively  recoiled  from  the 
idea,  and  she  knew  that  were  that  dear  mother  now  living, 
not  even  of  her  could  she  make  a  confidant — that  the  reli 
gious  unity,  the  integral  sanctity,  the  cherished  exclusiveness 
of  marriage  would  be  invaded  and  broken,  and  the  sweet 
charm  lost  by  the  introduction  of  a  third  party — beloved  even 
as  that  dear,  mutual  mother — into  its  sacred  counsels.  No, 
unhappy  and  bewildered  as  she  was,  she  felt  that  by  all  her 
hopes  of  a  future  happy  union,  this  wretched  division  must 
be  kept  to  herself— upon  herself  solely  recoil  the  burden  and 
he  pain — she  "must  tread  the  wine  press  alone."  And 
25 


398  CATHERINE'S    REGENCY. 

even  when  she  prayed  for  Divine  inspiration  to  guide  her,  the 
response  came  from  the  depths  of  her  spirit,  "  The  Word  of 
God  is  within  you." 

And  how  empty  the  house  seemed  because  one  was  away — 
how  gloomy — how  funereal — even  the  light  footstep  of  a 
thamher-maid  in  the  distance  sounded  hollowly, — sending  a 
dreary  echo  through  the  many  passages  of  the  great,  empty 
house — empty,  for  that  he  was  gone. 

It  seemed  not  worth  while  to  go  on  with  daily  life  at  all — 
to  keep  up  the  fire  on  the  household  hearth,  or  to  light  the 
evening  lamp,  or  to  order  meals  for  herself  alone. 

But  if  Catherine  were  for  once  tempted  in  her  sorrow  to 
forget  her  duties, — her  duties  were  not  the  least  disposed  to 
leave  her  long  in  peace — no,  not  for  an  hour. 

Catherine  was  roused  from  her  fit  of  deep  thought  by  the 
entrance  of  a  field  woman,  who,  with  the  usual  curtsey,  and 
the  customary  greeting  of — "  Sarvunt,  ma'am,"  stood  before 
her. 

Kate  raised  her  heavy  eyelids  abstractedly. 

"  Sarvunt,  ma'am,"  said  the  woman,  again  curtseying 
"  Aunt  Field  Mary  is  well  over  it,  ma'am.  It's  a  boy-chile, 
ma'am ;  a  likely  little  boy-chile  as  ever  you  see,  ma'am. 
An'  Aunt  Field  Mary  told  me  to  tell  you,  ma'am,  how,  thank 
the  Lord,  an'  she's  fotch  through  safe,  an'  how  she  wouldn't 
let  dem  sturve  you  las'  night,  caze  you  wur  so  tired,  an'  caze 
it  wur  the  lassest  night  Marse  Archer  had  to  stay  home.  An' 
Aunt  Field  Mary  say,  would  you  please  to  come  down  der  to 
her  quarter  an'  see  her  dis  mornin',  and  how  she  wants  some 
green  tea,  an'  loaf  sugar,  an' — an' — wine,  if  you  please, 
ma'am." 

"  What — what  did  you  say  ?"  asked  Catherine,  passing 
her  hand  over  her  forehead,  to  dispel  the  concentration  of 
sorrowful  thought. 

"  Aunt  Field  Mary,  ma'am,  it's  a  boy-chile,  ma'am,  a  likely 
little  boy-chile  as  ever  you  see,  ma'am,  an'  she's  fotch  well 
through  of  it,  thank  Marster,  ma'am,  an'  she  say,  how  will 
you  come  an'  see  her,  an'  send  her  some  liquor,  an'  things. 
Likewise,  Uncle  Jubilee,  its  daddy,  ma'am,  he  say,  can't  ho 
have  a  holyday  to-day-,  ma'am,  an'  stay  home  out'n  de  field, 
*eein'  how  it's  his  firstest  son  an'  hier  out'n  seven  darters." 

Passing  her  hand  across  her  forehead  slowly,  Catherine 
aispersed  the  last  lingering  fragments  of  her  bitter  reverie, 
ard  stood  up  to  her  simple,  practical,  household  duties. 


CATHERINE'S    REGENCY.  309 

then  her  action  was  clear  and  decided.  She  took  up  her 
little  basket  of  keys,  bade  the  woman  follow  her,  and  went 
down  stairs  and  into  the  pantry,  where  she  filled  a  hamper 
with  tea  and  sugar,  crackers,  jelly,  and  other  little  matters, 
an  1  gave  it  to  her  attendant,  saying — 

"  Take  these  to  Field  Mary,  and  say  that  I  will  be  down 
to  see  her  presently." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  sure  'nough.  But  'bout  de  liquor,  honey  ? 
likewise  Uncle  Jubilee's  holyday,  seein'  how  it's  his  firstest 
son  an'  hier  crut'n  seven  darters  ?" 

"  Tell  Mary  that  I  cannot  send  her  wine,  it  is  not  good 
for  her  now ;  but  tell  her  to  mention  any  other  want,  and  if 
it  be  a  proper  one,  it  shall  be  supplied.  Tell  Jubilee  to  re 
turn  to  the  field — his  labor  cannot  possibly  be  spared  from  it 
to-day.  And  stay — what  is  your  name  1" 

"  Nelly,  ma'am.  'Deed  it  is,  honey.  That's  my  name, 
Nelly." 

"  I  think  I  never  saw  you  up  at  the  bouse  before,  Nelly  ?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  likely  not,  chile,  indeed.  I  lives  quite  dis 
tant  off,  down  der  on  Cedar  Creek,  unnerneaf  of  Bushy  Hill 
der  on  de  outskeerts  o'  de  plantashum." 

"  Well,  Nelly,  who  is  tending  Field  Mary  ?" 

"  /  is,  ma'am.  Hardbargain  Henny,  she  long  o'  her  now 
But  7  tends  her.  I  tends  all  de  wimmin  hands  when  dey's 
sick,  'deed  I  does,  chile.  But  poor  creeturs,  dey  alluz  wants 
der  miste'ss,  alluz.  I  never  knew  dem  to  fail  o'  fretting 
arter  Aer,  dey  don't  seem  to  feel  kinder  safe  widout  her, 
dough  I  alluz  tells  de  poor  ignoran'  creeturs,  der  mist'ess 
can't  do  nufiin  'tall — dere  in  de  ban's  o'  de  Lord — not  in  de 
mist'ss's.  An'  dar  FieP  Mary,  'ceitful  thing,  sendin'  you 
word  how  she  didn't  want  you  sturved,  arter  keepin'  on  artcr 
us  all  night  to  send  for  you ;  but  I  tolled  her  good  I  wan't 
agoin'  to  have  the  young  madam  wurritted  long  o'  her  'fernal 
nonsense,  bein'  as  it  was  de  lassest  night  Marster  had  to  stay 
at  home." 

"  Yes,  there,  go  now,"  said  Catherine,  waving  her  hand 
wearily. 

"  Nyther  wan't  it  any  sort  o'  use,  case  I,  myse'f,  dough  I 
hould'n  be  de  fuss  to  bray  aifen  it,  am  as  knowin'  a  'oman 
as  if  I  wur  book  edified,  bein'  as  I  has  had  thirty  jyears 
'speriments,  ten  years  practysin'  on  ole  Marse  Roger  Uowei 
plantashum,  down  in  ole  Si'  Mary's,  'fore  I  came  here,  nus» 
long  o'  Miss  C'ir'line  Gower,  wid  her  fuss  baby,  which  wa» 


400  CATHERINE'S    REGENCY. 

our  Miss  Car'line  Clif 'n.  An'  dat  war  twenty  odd  year  ago. 
an'  I'se  had  twenty  years  'speriments  here.  Lord,  mist'ess, 
ma'am,  whenever  you  'quires  any  'vice  and  'sistance,  you 
ain't  no  'cassion  to  call  in  any  dem  denied,  infunndly, 
roguing  doctors  as  makes  you  worse  sick,  purpose  o'  gettin' 
more  credit  and  money  for  makin'  you  well." 

"  There — there — there — there,  Nelly,  return  to  your  pa- 
ti«>nt." 

"  Yes,  mist'ess,  I'm  gwine  now,  ma'am,  only  I  wanted  to 
tell  you  while  I  trought  of  it,  how  when  eber  you  'quire  of 
fle  aid  an'  comfort,  you  no  call  to  send  offen  de  plantashunij 
3ase— " 

"  Nelly,  there  is  one  thing  that  I  must  say  to  you  now, 
and  which  I  wish  you  to  remember.  It  is  that  when  I  give 
a  direction  I  intend  it  to  be  followed." 

The  old  woman  looked  mortified,  and  took  up  the  hamper, 
settled  it  upon  her  head,  and  went  out.  It  pained  Cathe 
rine's  gentle  heart  to  speak  so  peremptorily.  But  this  was 
one  among  the  abuses  she  felt  it  to  be  her  imperative  duty  to 
reform,  the  habits  of  idleness  and  listlessness,  and  the  pro 
pensity  to  stand  and  gossip  among  the  domestics.  Trifling 
as  this  little  incident  was,  it  served  to  arouse  Catherine  and 
place  her  on  her  feet,  and  she  did  not  utterly  sink  again. 

The  evening  fire  was  kindled  on  the  household  hearth,  and 
the  evening  lamp  lighted,  though  there  was  but  one  lonely 
woman  to  feel  their  cheering  influence. 

The  next  day  was  the  Sabbath,  and  Catherine  as  usual 
attended  church.  She  felt  deeply  the  need  of  religious  con 
Eolation.  Her  spirit  hungered,  thirsted,  failed  and  fainted 
for  the  feeding,  refreshing,  strengthening  ministrations  of  the 
gospel.  The  old,  sad,  unanswered  problem  of  unmerited 
suffering  perplexed  her.  She  felt  herself  sinking  into  that 
sad  and  nearly  hopeless  stfite  of  mind,  induced  by  great  and 
singular  trials  to  be  borne  perforce  alone  and  in  secret — 
when,  wanting  human  sympathy  and  failing  of  divine  com 
fort,  the  soul  loses  sight  of  the  Merciful  Father  in  the  Om 
nipotent  Creator,  or  in  other  words,  of  especial  Providence 
in  general  Providence,  and  falls  sadly,  despairingly  back 
uj/on  its  helpless  self,  and  says  that  the  Supreme  Ixuler  of 
the  Universe,  the  Governor  of  countless  millions  of  suns  and 
systems,  never  stoops  to  care  for  a  poor,  lost  atom  like  itself. 
She  needed  to  hear  the  gospel  message  of  love  and  hopo 
But  when  she  entered  her  pew,  and  raised  her  eyes 


CATHERINE'S     REGENCY.  401 

to  the  pulpit,  she. was  disappointed  in  missing  from  his  place 
the  mild  and  venerable  face  and  form  of  the  parish  clergy 
man,  whose  teachings  every  Sabbath  morning  sent  her  homo 
with  renewed  love,  and  sustained  her  through  the  week,  and 
she  was  pained  to  see  m  his  stead  a  young  man,  a  mere* 
youth  in  seeming,  some  student  newly  ordained,  she  sup 
posed,  and  she  sank  back  in  her  seat,  saddened  with  the 
thought  that  she  would  not  get  the  greatly  needed  spirit  mil 
help  from  him  ;  for  what  could  a  student  in  his  youth  know 
of  life's  dread  trials  1  of  the  heart's  mournful  experiences, 
or  the  spirit's  deep  needs  ?  She  felt  sure  he  could  no;,  help 
her,  and  she  sank  back,  resigning  herself  with  a  dee)  sigh. 
The  opening  hymn  was  given  out — 

God  move*  in  a  mysterious  way 

Hi-*  wonders  to  perform, 
Hv  p'auts  His  footstep-!  on  the  sea. 

And  rides  upon  I  he  storm. 

Ye  fearful  souls,  fresh  courage  take, 

The  cloud  ye  so  much  dread 
Is  big-  with  mercy,  and  shall  break 

In  blessing*  on'your  head. 

The  first  words  of  this  hymn  fell  upon  Catherine's  sur 
prised  ear,  filling  her  soul  with  awe — for  it  seemed  a  direct 
answer  to  her  thought.  And  all  that  hymn,  every  stanza, 
every  line,  was  filled  with  meaning  for  her,  and  powerful  in 
its  effect  upon  her  mind,  in  its  peculiar  state  of  experience. 
She  listened  in  penitent,  gratefiil.  reverent  silence,  folding 
her  hands  meekly,  and  saying  within,  her  heart — 

"  Father,  forgive  my  doubts  and  fears  \  I  will  believe  it  \ 
Yes,  I  will  believe  that  even  this  heavy  cloud  is  laden  with 
mercy,  and  will  shower  blessings  \  I  will  believe  that  oven 
this  bitter  trial — this  bitter,  bitter  separation  and  disunion, 
is  in  some  way  necessary  to  our  moral  growth  and  future 
welfare,  and  that  I  shall  see  it !  I  do  believe  it,  for  I  have 
had  blessed  answers  before  to  doubts.  *  And  we  know  that 
all  things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that  love  tho 
Lord.'  I  do  believe  it." 

God  is  His  own  interpreter, 
And  He  will  make  it  plain; 

were  the  solemn  last  words  of  the  Divine  Song  that  awed  he* 
into  stillness.  This  hymn  was  sung,  Catherine'-*  beautiftu 
YO/xse  \)ining  the  choir.  And  when  it  was  ended,  followed 


402  CATHERINE'S    REGENCY. 

the  prayer,  so  singularly  coincident,  that  every  word  gava 
voice  to  the  deep  silent  cry  in  her  own  suffering  heart. 

And  then  the  young  minister  arose  to  give  out  the  text : 
Matthew  x.  29.  "  Are  not  two  sparrows  sold  for  a  farthing  ? 
And  one  of  them  shall  not  fall  on  the  ground  without  your 
Father."  And  here  followed  the  sermon.  The  manner  of 
tho  young  preacher  was  modest,  natural,  calm  and  sweet,  as 
befitted  the  gentle  words  of  the  text,  and  the  consoling  sub 
ject  of  the  sermon — FAITH  IN  PROVIDENCE — the  childlike 
faith  that  comes  through  the  heart,  and  not  through  the 
head.  Catherine  had  thought  he  could  not  help  her.  Never 
had  she  been  more  in  error  ifl  her  life.  That  pale  young 
preacher  had  a  divine  message  for  her — for  her  ;  an  answer 
to  her  unsolvable  problem ;  a  message,  providentially,  the 
most  direct,  pointed,  strong,  startling  that  ever  fell  from 
lipa  touched  with  fire,  revivifying  the  soul  of  the  receiver  ;  a 
menage  that  satisfied  every  doubt,  and  calmed  every  fear, 
and  replied  to  every  question  as  perfectly,  as  satisfy ingly,  as 
if  Heaven  had  spoken  ;  a  message  that  aroused  faith,  revived 
hope,  rekindled  love,  till  all  the  soul  glowed  with  divine  fire. 
She  was  wrapped,  entranced,  carried  away  by  tire  eloquence, 
powe^  and  pathos  of  this  divinely-inspired  discourse.  She 
never  saw  the  young  preacher  before  or  after,  but  he  had 
dropped  a  celestial  treasure  deep  into  where  she  kept  it 
safe — a  talisman  through  all  the  trials  of  life. 

She  left  the  church  loving,  hopeful,  strong  in  faith,  strong 
to  act  and  endure,  patient  to  wait.  So  elevated  and  inspired 
was  her  soul,  that  it  illumined  her  whole  countenance.  And 
when  the  county  ladies  crowded  around  her  at  the  church 
door  to  condole  with  her  on  the  departure  of  Major  Clifton, 
and  to  press  hospitalities  upon  her,  and  to  urge  her  not  to 
mope  in  widowhood  at  home,  their  benevolent  purposes  were 
forgotten  in  their  surprise,  and  the  first  words  were — 

"  Why,  how  brightly  you  look  this  morning,  Mrs.  Clif 
ton!" 

Catherine  promised  many  visits,  and  extended  many  invi 
tations,  and  finally  was  glad  to  escape  and  enter  her  carriage, 
t;  dwell  in  lonely,  loving  reverence  upon  the  words  she  had 
heard.  And  she  reacted  home.  And  the  Word  departed 
not  from  her,  neither  that  day,  nor  the  next,  nor  through  life. 
An&  with  the  perfect  faith  in  God,  perfect  trust  in  her  future 
ame.  And  again  she  whispered  to  herself  the  charming 


CATHERINE'S    REGENCY.  403 

« I  will  wait  patiently — I  will  work  faithfully,  The  post 
uT  duty,  as  of  hope,  is  my  husband's  house  and  home.  He 
trusts  me,  at  least,  even  now,  with  the  charge  of  this  great 
plantation.  Construe  it  as  he  may,  it  is  a  mark  of  great 
confidence.  I  will  be  true  to  the  trust." 

And  then,  indeed,  as  she  whispered  these  words  to  her 
heart,  hope,  sweet  hope,  inspired  her  more  and  more,  and 
strengthened  her  more  and  more,  and  she  felt  that  he  still 
loved  her — she  felt  it  by  that  sure  instinct  that  teaches  a 
woman  when  she  is  beloved,  though  no  word,  look,  or  ges 
ture  reveals  it  to  her.  And  she  acted  upon  this  feeling, 
although  almost  unconscious  of  its  existence  as  a  motive.. 
And  she  knew  that  she  would  be  useful  to  him,  substantially 
useful  to  him  where  she  was — for  with  her  it  was  not  enough 
to  be  devoted,  soul  and  body,  to  his  interests, — no,  "  wishing 
well  "  must  have  a  "  body  in  it,"  in  order  "  to  be  felt."  She 
communed  with  her  heart,  asking — 

"  What,  besides  the  service  of  God,  do  I  really  live  for  in 
this  world  ?  For  his  happiness.  Yes,  my  profound  heart, 
that  is  it !  For  his  good,  his  interests,  his  welfare.  I  have 
not  been  an  obstacle  to  his  happiness.  I  have  not  been  a 
stumbling  block  in  the  way  of  his  marrying  another.  No  ! 
ror  I  feel  that  he  loves  me  as  he  never  loved  another ;  and  I 
.ove  him  as  he  was  never  loved  by  another ;  and  has  any 
other  the  instinct,  the  inspiration,  the  strength  and  patience 
to  bear  with  him,  that  God  has  placed  in  my  heart  ?  I  will 
believe  and  trust  in  the  Lord  and  His  inspirations.  And 
heart,  and  brain,  and  hands, — all  that  I  am,  and  all  that  I 
have,  will  I  devote  to  his  service.  And  until  he  restores  me, 
that  alone  shall  make  my  occupation  and  my  happiness." 

The  next  morning  being  Monday,  she  arose  with  the  inten 
tion  of  taking  seriously  in  hand  the  business  of  the  estate. 
This  was  now  the  first  of  December,  and  there  was  a  great 
deal  to  be  done  before  the  close  of  the  year,  in  financial,  as 
well  as  in  domestic  and  agricultural  matters.  The  overseer 
and  the  hired  farm-laborers  had  all  been  paid  in  advance,  up 
to  the  first  of  January.  And  Major  Clifton  had  left  Cathe 
rine  twelve  hundred  dollars  in  cash,  for  her  own  current  ex 
penses.  All  this  money  she  had  at  once  determined  to 
devote  to  another  purpose — namely — to  lifting  some  of  those 
notes  which  would  fall  due  on  the  first  of  the  year.  She  de 
termined,  also,  in  order  to  help  to  clear  off  the  incubus  of 
d3bt  for  the  coming  year,  to  try  to  find  a  tenant  for  Hardbar 


404  CATHERINE'S     REGENCY. 

gain,  and  to  devote  the  rent  to  the  taking  up  of  the  remaining 
notes.  She  went  into  a  patient  and  thorough  examination 
of  the  overseer's  accounts,  and  discovered,  with  much  pain, 
that  he  had  embez/led  the  funds  trusted  to  him  for  the  pay 
ment  of  the  hired  hands ;  and  a  stricter  review  of  his  con 
duct,  resulted  in  the  detection  of  other  malpractices,  that 
decided  Catherine  to  give  him  warning.  A  very  little  ob 
servation  convinced  her,  also,  that  the  "  baker's  dozen  of 
hired  laborers,  all  his  own  kin  folks,"  were  an  unnecessary 
and  expensive  set  of  idle  parasites,  of  whom  she  determined 
to  rid  the  plantation  at  the  end  of  the  year.  She  finally 
concluded  still  further  to  lower  the  scale  of  expenditures, 
by  parting  with  her  housekeeper.  She  reconciled  herself  to 
this  last  step,  when  she  heard  of  a  place  in  the  neighborhood 
to  which  Mrs.  Mercer  might .._go.  YeJyCatherine  did  not 
wish  to  make  these  important  changeTwTthout  again  consult 
ing  Major  Clifton.  And,  perhaps — let  the  whole  truth  be 
told — perhaps  poor  Kate  was  desirous  to  hear  from  him,  and 
glad  of  a  fair  business  excuse  to  write.  And  she  wrok*  the 
following  note.  She  had  some  trouble  with  it.  It  was  the 
first  (except  the  lines  at  the  funeral,)  she  had  ever  written 
him,  and,  under  all  the  circumstances,  she  hesitated  how  to 
begin,  or  how  to  end  it.  She  disliked  to  address  him  as  a 
mere  acquaintance,  and  she  shrunk  from  any  warmer  manner 
uf  greeting.  Finally,  she  wrote,  as  she  would  have  written 
to  a  friend — thus — 

"WniTE  CLIFFS,  December  8th,  1812. 
"  DEAR  MAJOR  CLIFTON  : — 

"  After  a  very  careful  investigation  of  the  affairs  of  thu 
plantation,  and  much  patient  thought  concerning  them, 
I  have  concluded — if  I  have  your  approbation  and  authority 
for  doing  so — that  the  establishment  can  be  cut  down 
so  as  to  reduce  the  annual  expenditure  to  about  one-half 
its  present  amount — also,  that  the  Hardbargain  farm  can 
bo  let  for  a  sum,  double  the  annual  amount  of  what  we 
can  save  at  White  Cliffs.  And,  finally,  that  the  aggregate 
or  these  moneys,  saved  and  acquired,  will  be  sufficient,  in 
t\vc  years,  to  pay  off  the  accumulated  debts  oppressing  the 
estate.  (Here  followed  a  more  detailed  account  of  her  plans.) 
Please  write,  and  let  me  know  if  I  have  your  authority  for 
proceeding.  Yours,  faithfully, 

«  CATHERINE." 


CATHERINE'S    REGENCY.  405 

In  due  time,  Catherine  received  the  answer.  She  seized 
it  with  an  eager  hand.  She  opened  it  with  trembling  finders. 
She  most  unreasonably  hoped — poor  girl — for  some  kind, 
rnlenting  word — some  token  of  approbation  or  affection. 
Truly,  she  believed  in  miracles.  This  was  the  precious 
epistle — 

"  HAMPTON,  December  16th,  1812. 
"  MADAM  : — 

"  Your  favor  of  the  8th  instant  lies  before  me.  I  be» 
leave  to  reiterate  now  what  I  said  at  parting — viz  :  that 
I  have  not  the  slightest  hesitation  in  leaving  the  plantation 
to  your  own  exclusive  charge  and  direction — having  no  doubt 
that  self-interest  will  guide  your  talent  into  the  surest  means 
of  recruiting  the  resources  of  the  estate.  Let  Hardbargain, 
by  all  means,  if  it  pleases  you  to  do  it,  remembering  that  I 
have  nothing  to  do  with  that  cunningly  acquired  little  pieco 
of  property  of  yours.  Regarding  the  dismissal  of  the  house 
keeper,  the  overseer,  and  the  hired  farm-laborers,  whom  you 
consider  as  supernumeraries,  send  them  off,  by  all  means,  if 
you  think  it  proper  to  do  so.  I,  myself,  perhaps,  should 
have  hesitated,  ere  I  sent  them  adrift  upon  the  world.  But 
money-saving  is,  I  presume,  a  plebeian  instinct. 

"  Finally,  pray  govern  in  your  own  way.  without  ever  again 
thinking  it  to  be  necessary  to  consult, 

•*  Your  servant, 

"ARCHER  CLIFTON" 


f  OG  CATHERINE'S     PROGRESS. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

CATHERINE'S  PROGRESS. 


Am1,  she  grew  a  noble  lady, 
And  her  people  loved  her  much. — TENNYSON. 


CATHERINE'S  arrangements  for  the  year  were  all  completed 
by  the  first  of  January ;  and  with  less  inconvenience  to 
others,  and  consequently  with  less  pain  to  herself,  than  she 
had  dared  to  anticipate. 

She  heard  that  Turnbull,  the  cashiered  overseer,  had  pur 
chased  a  piece  of  land  in  the  valley — (doubtless  with  the 
embezzled  funds,  but  of  that  she  did  not  think) — built  upon 
it  a  log  cab:n,  and  set  up  as  a  farmer  upon  his  own  footing; 
and  thftB  IIP  had  taken  his  tribe  of  sons  and  nephews  to  assist 
nim.  Sne  was  very  much  pleased  to  know  that  they  were 
out  of  tnA  way  of  swindling  others  as  they  had  swindled 
Clifton,  &nd  also  that  they  were  equally  removed  from  want 
and  suffering. 

Mrs.  Mercer,  by  her  warm  recommendation,  had  found  a 
very  eligible  situation  as  housekeeper  to  an  elderly,  single 
gentleman — a  planter  in  the  neighborhood — and  her  benevo- 
ence  was  set  at  rest  in  regard  to  the  old  woman. 

Lastly,  she  had  let  Hardbargain  to  excellent  tenants — a 
young  New  England er  and  his  wife — who  took  it  ready 
furnished  and  stocked  as  it  was  ;  and  designed  to  work  the 
land  and  keep  a  school. 

The  negroes  had  their  usual  carnival  at  Christmas,  lasting 
till  after  .New  Year — during  which,  all  that  had  been  engaged 
in  the  lant  twelve  months  were  married,  and  wedding  parties 
wore  given  and  dances  got  up,  ect.,  ect. 

But  on  the  second  of  January,  Catherine  caused  them  all 
to  be  assembled  in  her  presence,  and  told  them  that  she 
should,  on  the  next  Monday  and  thereafter  set  them  to  work 
ir  earnest ;  that  their  overseer  was  gone — ("  Thank  Marster 
Lori  for  that,"  exclaimed  several) — but  that  she  herself 


CATHERINE'S    PROGRESS.  407 

would  be  their  overseer  for  the  ensuing  year.  ("  You'll  be 
fair,  young  mistress!  We  ain't  afeard  o'  you,"  said  the 
same.)  She  waved  her  hand  for  silence  and  attention,  and 
then  informed  them  farther — that  though  they  should  find 
her  hereafter  as  heretofore,  just  and  moderate  and  merciful ; 
ready  to  give  ear  to  their  complaints,  and  settle  their  diffi 
culties,  and  reward  their  zeal — yet  that  she  should  certainly 
require  a  more  steady  and  systematic  application  to  their 
duties  than  they  had  ever  before  given.  She  said,  in  conclu 
sion,  that  their  health,  comfort,  improvement  and  happiness, 
should  be  her  care  ;  but  that  even  in  this  also,  she  should 
need  their  co-operation — ("  You  shall  hab  it,  mist'ess,  'deed 
you  shall,  honey  ;"  from  some  of  the  older  negroes.)  Finally 
she  dismissed  them,  telling  them  that  she  wished  to  see  them 
all  together  again  on  Sunday  evening  at  early  candle-light, 
in  the  spinning-room,  where  she  desired  that  they  should  as 
semble  quietly. 

On  Saturday  evening  when  the  women  were  done  spinning, 
Catherine  directed  that  all  the  wheels  should  be  taken  to  one 
corner  of  the  room,  and  crowded  together,  and  that  the  set 
tees  and  benches  from  the  piazza  and  lawns,  should  be  brought 
in  and  arranged  around  the  walls ;  and  finally  that  a  little 
reading  stand  and  chair  should  be  brought  for  her  own  use. 
These  preparations  occupied  but  ten  minutes,  and  the  room 
tvas  fitted  up  for  family  worship. 

On  Sunday  evening,  at  the  appointed  hour,  Catherine  met 
her  assembled  laborers  and  servants  there.  When  they  were 
all  seated  and  perfectly  still  and  attentive,  she  said  to  them — 
"  I  desired  your  presence  here  this  Sabbath  evening,  that  I 
might  make  a  proposition  to  you.  I  have  been  thinking  that 
we  ought  not  to  finish  every  day  without  remembering  and 
returning  thanks  to  our  Heavenly  Father  for  His  daily  boun 
ties,  protection  and  mercies  to  us,  and  asking  a  continuance 
of  the  same  blessings ;  and  I  think  we  should  not  dare  to  lie 
down  and  commit  ourselves  to  that  helpless  sleep  that  so  re 
sembles  death,  without  confessing  to  our  Lord  the  sins  we 
have  committed  against  Him  during  the  dav,  imploring  His 
forgiveness  of  them,  and  asking  His  watchful  care  over  us 
during  the  darkness  of  the  night  and  the  defencelessness  of 
tleep.  Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  mist'ess,  we  do,  we  do  indeed,"  answered  several 
of  the  elder  negroes,  clearly — while  a  modest  murmur  of  assent 
ran  thi  ^ugh  the  assembly.  The  negroes  are  strongly  inclined 


403  CATHERINE'S     PROGRESS. 

to  worship,  and  ever  ready  to  co-operate  in  anything  of  thai 
sacred  character. 

Catherine  resumed — 

"  We  should  each  do  this  in  private  by  our  own  bedsides  , 
but  we  should  also  do  it  together  as  a  household — as  the 
creatures  of  one  God,  the  children  of  one  Father."  She 
paused  a  moment  in  thought,  and  then  spoke  again.  "  I  have 
been  also  reflecting  that  you  ought  all  to  know  more  of  the 
Bible  than  you  have  as  yet  had  any  opportunity  of  knowing, 
And  I  think  that  most  of  you  would  be  pleased  to  kno^v 
more."  She  paused  for  an  answer. 

"  Yes,  yes,  mist'ess,  we  do,"  chimed  in  many  eager  voices, 
old  and  young. 

"  I  know  you  do.  Well,  then,  henceforth  we  will  assemble 
in  this  room  every  evening  just  before  bed  time,  and  as  a 
household  of  the  Lord,  a  family  of  one  Father,  spend  a  short 
time  together  in  reading  and  hearing  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and 
in  prayer.  In  beginning  to  read  the  Bible  with  you,  I  shall 
commence  with  the  first  chapter  of  the  New  Testament,  and 
read  a  chapter  every  night,  until  we  regularly  read  it  through. 
And  afterwards,  in  the  same  manner,  we  will  go  through 
David's  Psalms  and  the  Prophets. 

Catherine  finished  and  sat  down,  made  a  sign  for  silence,, 
arid  opened  the  New  Testament  and  commenced  her  reading. 
Never  had  reader  a  more  attentive  or  interested  audience. 
She  passed  over  the  long,  hard  genealogical  table  in  the  first 
part  of  the  chapter,  and  began  with  the  Angel's  visit  to  the 
Virgin  Mary,  and  read  also  the  second  chapter,  describing 
the  birth  and  infancy  of  the  Saviour,  sometimes  stopping  to 
give  explanations,  which  she  knew  the  simplicity  of  her  au 
dience  made  necessary.  The  family  service  was  concluded 
with  a  prayer,  and  the  servants  dismissed. 

And  this  evening  service  became  thenceforth  a  daily  prac 
tice.  And  Catherine's  people  learned  more  of  the  life  and 
uoctrines  of  the  Saviour  from  her,  than  they  would  have  ac 
quired  in  a  lifetime's  attendance  upon  learned  ministers,  who 
preach  only  for  the  educated. 

On  Monday  morning,  Catherine  entered  upon  her  assumed 
3uty  of  overseer.  And[  never  were  the  affairs  of  a  plantation 
better  administered  than  by  her.  Her  "  good  will  was  to  it," 
and  all  her  faculties  brought  to  bear  upon  the  business.  And 
although  she  kept  a  firm  hold  upon  the  reins  of  government, 
exacted  the  complete  fulfillment  of  every  duty,  and  kepi 


CATHERINE'S    PROGRESS.  409 

»  W  -A!\j  at  their  post  every  man  and  woman,  yet  nsver  wru 
a  imetie^s  more  beloved  and  venerated.  And  certainly  nevei 
was  one  so  faithfully  served.  All  suboidinates  need — not 
harsh  nor  lax  government — but  a  steady,  systematic,  rational 
government,  which  they  can  understand  and  be  satisfied  with , 
and  sucLvdu  one  was  that  of  Catherine.  Her  administration 
was  for  her  people  a  very  wholesome  change  from  the  capri 
«ious  tyranny  01  the  late  overseer,  who  had  been  accustomed 
to  permit  the  turnout  license  and  laxity  among  the  laborers 
for  four  or  five  uays,  and  then,  growing  alarmed,  to  hurry 
and  worry,  and  urive  and  maltreat  them  for  a  week,  to  make 
up  for  lost  time.  Ofef.nerine's  government  was  regular,  firm, 
just  and  merciful.  Attrt  sne  was  loved,  respected  and  served 
accordingly.  There  ivfei'e  some  exceptions,  but  they  were 
very  few  and  unimportant,  and  soon  fell  under  the  general 
rule. 

And  thus,  in  the  perfect  performance  of  every  duty,  do 
mestic  and  social,  that  devolved  upon  her  as  wife,  friend, 
mistress  and  Christian,  Catherine  passed  the  winter.  The 
spring  brought  the  usual  accession  01  busy  work,  and  she 
gave  herself  up  to  its  direction  with  untiring  energy  and  ac 
tivity.  She  prayed,  and  labored,  and  trusted  in  Heaven,  and 
Heaven  prospered  her  work,  and  all  we^t  well.  Before  the 
first  of  June,  she  had  paid  off  all  those  neavy  n-otes,  which 
had  been  accumulating  interest,  so  long.  There  were  other 
heavy  debts,  but  she  saw  her  way  clearly  ulrough,  discharg 
ing  them  before  the  end  of  the  current  year. 

But  she  never,  never  heard  from  Major  Cliiton.  He  seemed 
just  as  lost  to  her  as  if  the  grave  had  received  him.  She 
took  all  the  principal  newspapers,  for  the  sake  of  keeping 
the  run  of  the  campaign  ;  and  oh  !  often  her  cheeks  and  very 
lips  paled,  and  her  heart  sickened  and  sunk  with  terror,  to 
read  of  the  awful  perils  of  war,  and  to  think  that  he  was  ex 
posed  to  them.  But  terror  was  not  the  only  emotion  raised 
by  these  descriptions  of  engagements.  No — her  whole  soul 
glowed  with  patriotic  ardor,  when  she  read  of  the  gallant  re 
pulse  of  the  combined«land  and  naval  forces  of  the  British, 
under  Admirals  Warren  and  Cockburn,  and  General  Sir 
Sydney  Beckwith,  from  Craney  Island,  by  a  mere  handful  -jf 
our  troops  :  and  her  heart  swelled  with  love  and  enthusiasm, 
when  in  the  same  account,  she  saw  her  husband's  name  men 
tioned  with  the  highest  encomiums  upon  his  bravery,  discre 
tion,  and  invalualT?.  services. 


410       CATHERINE'S  PROGRESS. 

Autumn  came,  bringing  along  with  its  other  associations 
intensely  distinct  images  of  the  last  sweet,  calm  days  she  had 
passed  at  Hardbargain  with  her  dying  mother,  and  these 
vivid  recollections  stimulated  afresh  her  devotion  and  her 
energy.  During  her  administration,  to  clear  the  estate  of 
debt,  and  at  its  close,  to  restore  it  unencumbered  into  tha 
hands  of  her  husband,  was  now  her  dear  object.  When  the 
harvest  was  gathered  in,  she  consulted  several  of  her  most 
intelligent  and  enterprising  neighbors,  concerning  the  state 
of  the  agricultural  markets,  and  afterwards  proceeded  to 
Baltimore  in  person  in  order  to  obtain  the  best  possible 
prices  for  her  crops.  She  succeeded  in  effecting  highly  ad 
vantageous  sales,  and  with  the  proceeds  she  returned  homo 
and  paid  off  several  of  those  heavy  debts. 

And  so  the  autumn  passed,  and  winter  came,  with  its  lei 
sure,  its  stormy  days,  and  its  long  nights.  Nothing  occurred 
to  break  the  monotony  of  daily  life  until  the  last  of  Decem 
ber,  when  she  collected  the  half  year's  rent  from  Hardbar 
gain,  and  paid  off  all  the  remaining  debts,  except  one  incon 
siderable  note  of  six  hundred  dollars.  On  .the  morning  oi 
the  first  of  January,  she  sent  as  usual  to  the  village  post* 
office  for  her  papers.  When  the  boy  returned,  he  handed 
her  a  letter  directed  in  the  hand-writing  of  Major  Clifton. 
Oh  !  joy  at  last ! — she  tore  open  the  envelope,  and  seized  the 
enclosure — it  was  nothing  but  a  check  upon  the  Bank  of 
Richmond  for  five  hundred  dollars.  She  let  it  fall  unheeded, 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  wept  silently.  But 
when  her  fit  of  silent  weeping  was  over,  she  arose,  took  the 
check,  went  and  collected  what  money  she  had  left  in  the  house, 

and  ordered  her  carriage  and  drove  to  L ,  and  lifted 

that  last  note.      Then  Catherine  had  the  joy  of  seeing  tho 
property  entirely  free  from  debt. 

And  so  passed  the  winter  and  came  the  spring  of  1814. 
And  still  she  heard  nothing  from  Major  Clifton.  And  since 
reading  the  account  of  his  gallant  conduct  on  Craney  Island, 
she  learned  nothing  of  him.  And  still  from  her  loop-hole  of 
retreat,  she  anxiously  watched  the  progress  of  the  war,  seizing 
upon  all  the  published  accounts,  and  reading  them  with  the 
greatest  avidity.  How.  diligently  she  searched  the  papers  to 
find  his  name,  and  how  eagerly  her  eyes  darted  down  upon 
any  officer's  name  beginning  with  a  C,  which  always  turned 
out  to  be  Crutchfield,  Corbin,  Carey,  anything  but  Clifton' 
Oh,  how  Darren  wa«  all  this  war  news,  after  all ! 


CATHERINE'S    PROGRESS.  411 

But  Admiral  Cockburn's  piratical  fleet  was  now  in  the 
Chesapeake,  spreading  devastation  and  terror  through  all  its 
(slands,  coasts,  and  tributary  rivers  ;  and  every  paper  was 
filled  with  accounts  of  his  marauding  incursions  and  savage 
atrocities,  that,  defied  just  description,  much  more  exaggera 
tion.  Hear  what  a  cotemporary  historian  says  of  him: 

"  Throughout  the  waters  and  shores  of  the  Chesapeake, 
Admiral  Cockburn  now  reigned  supreme,  ubiquitous  and  ir 
resistible.  The  burglaries,  larcenies,  incendiarisms,  arid 
mere  marauding,  perpetrated  by  Admiral  Cockburn,  were  as 
odious  and  ignoble,  though  less  bloody  and  horrible,  than  the 
inhuman  atrocities  of  the  British  savages  in  the  West.  Slaves 
in  large  numbers,  large  quantities  of  tobacco,  furniture,  and 
other  private  property,  protected  by  the  laws  of  war,  and 
seldom  taken,  even  if  destroyed  by  land  troops,  were  seized 
upon  by  the  sea-faring  warriors  with  piratical  rapacity.  The 
predatory  attacks  of  the  enemy  in  the  Chesapeake  were 
limited  to  isolated  villages,  poor  farm-houses,  and  other  in« 
defencible  objects  taken  or  destroyed.  Destruction  was  the 
punishment  proclaimed  and  executed  for  resistance.  The 
house  and  barn  were  burned  of  whoever  fired  a  shot,  or  drew 
a  sword  in  self-defence.  Many  respectable  persons  in  com 
fortable  circumstances  were  reduced  to  poverty  by  these  de 
predations.  The  poor  were  especial  sufferers.  With  shores 
so  indented  with  creeks  and  bays,  the  whole  force  of  a  State 
under  arms  would  have  been  unequal  to  cope  with  such  over 
whelming  aggressors." 

Reading  frequently  such  accounts  as  this,  and  even  more 
alarming  ones  than  this,  is  it  strange  that  Catherine  sickened 
with  terror  and  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  him  who  was  exposed 
to  all  the  horrors  of  this  unsparing  warfare. 

At  length  the  shock  came.  It  was  on  the  evening  of  the 
iay  after  harvest-home,  and  she  had  given  all  her  people  a 
holyday,  even  down  to  the  messenger  whose  daily  duty  it  wa? 
to  bring  her  papers  from  the  post  office,  telling  him  that  ho 
might  take  the  whole  day,  and  bring  her  the  mail  when  he 
returned  home  at  night.  Thus,  instead  of  receiving  her  pa 
pers,  as  usual,  in  the  morning,  Catherine  had  to  wait  until 
the  boy's  return  in  the  evening.  She  was  sitting  in  the 
spinning-room,  awaiting  the  assembling  of  her  servants,  whom 
she  had  just  summoned  to  evening  worship,  when  they  all 
entered,  and  with  them  the  post-boy,  who  came  up  and  laiu 
before  her  tH  single  pap^.r  that  had  come  that  day.  Sho 


412  CATHERINE'S     PROGRESS. 

took  it,  to  lay  aside  until  after  the  evening's  devotions  \vere 
over — but  a  magic  name  on  the  outside  arrested  her  attention. 
Bhe  caught  up  the  paper,  and  read  in  large  capitals  : 

"  ENGAGEMENT  AT  ST.  LEONARD'S.  British  forces  under 
Admiral  Cockburn  repulsed  with  considerable  loss.  Major 
Clifton  dangerously  wounded." 

She  read  no  farther — the  room  swam  around  her — she 
reeled,  and  fell  into  the  arms  of  Henny,  who  sprang  forward 
to  receive  her.  Her  people  crowded  around  her,  in  great 
anxiety.  But  only  one  moment  she  fainted  thus — then  she 
recovered,  controlled  herself,  resumed  her  seat,  and  after 
sending  the  servants  all  back  to  their  places,  by  a  wave  of 
her  hand,  opened  the  Bible,  and  commenced  the  evening's 
exercises.  Her  face  was  very  pale,  her  hands  quivered  in 
turning  the  leaves,  and  her  voice  faltered,  so  as  to  be  nearly 
inaudible,  but  she  persevered,  and  got  through  with  the  ser 
vice,  even  unto  the  benediction.  After  it  was  all  over,  she 
detained  them  a  moment,  by  a  gesture,  and  then  said — 

"  Your  master  has  been  dangerously  wounded." 

Murmurs  of  surprise,  grief  and  anxiety  agitated  the  assem 
bly,  and  testified  to  their  affectionate  concern. 

"  Go  now  quietly  to  your  homes,  and  to-morrow  perhaps 
I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  more." 

They  dispersed  slowly,  turning  glances  of  uneasiness  and 
distress  at  the  silent  anguish  of  her  countenance. 

She  too,  went  out.  How  she  spent  the  night  is  best  known 
to  Heaven.  In  the  morning  when  she  appeared  among  her 
household — the  wasted  cheeks,  the  sunken  eyes,  the  hollow 
temples,  and  the  written  agony  of  the  brow,  alone  projied  the 
consuming  sorrow  of  her  heart. 

"  Jack — I  want  Jack,"  she  said,  as  soon  as  she  reached 
her  parlor.  And  the  favorite  servant  appeared  before  her. 
"  Jack,  I  think  you  love  me,"  she  said. 

"  Try  me,  mist'ess  dear,  an'  see  ef  I  doesn't." 

"  And  I  think  you  love  your  master  ?" 

"  Ah  !  my  Lor' !  Try  me — jes  on'y  try  me,  mist'ess— - 
dat's  all." 

"  I  wish  you  to  go  to  him  from  me." 

"  Oh !  do — do — do — do  sen'  me,  mist'ess  !  It's  war  I 
tongs  for  to  be." 

"  I  shall.  The  distance  is  over  a  hundred  miles.  You 
must  p ick  the  best  horse  in  the  stable,  and  start  within  MQ 


CATHERINE'S    PROGRESS.  4i3 

hour,  and  ride  day  and  night  until  you  reach  your  destina 
tion." 

"  'Deed,  mist'ess,  I  w^n't  let  de  grass  grow  onnerneaf  of 
my  feet." 

"  Very  well,  then,  go  now — have  you  had  your  break 
fast?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Go  now,  then,  and  prepare  for  your  journey,  while  I 
write  you  a  pass.  And  when  you  are  quite  ready,  come  to 
me,  and  I  will  give  you  farther  directions  about  your  jour 
ney." 

Jack  hastened  out — and  his  mistress  remained  for  a  few 
minutes,  with  her  hands  pressed  to  her  heart,  repeating  to 
herself,  with  agonizing  earnestness — 

"  Would — oh  ! — would  to  Heaven,  I  too,  might  go."  Soon 
•she  started,  as  with  sudden  recollection,  and  hurried  off  to 
write  the  pass,  and  the  directions  about  the  road.  And  when 
in  less  than  half  an  hour  Jack  appeared  before  her  again,  she 
was  ready  for  him.  "  Here,"  she  said,  "  is  your  pass,  and 
written  directions,  lest  you  should  forget  what  I  tell  you." 

"  Nebber  fear  me  forgettin',  mist'ess,  dear." 

"  You  must  take  the  road  to  Alexandria,  which  is  seventy 
miles  from  here.  When  you  reach  that  town,  take  the  ferry 
boat  and  cross  the  Potomac  to  the  Maryland  side.  Then  in 
quire  your  road  to  the  village  of  Benedict,  on  the  Patuxent, 
which  is  thirty  or  forty  miles  further  down  the  country. 
When  you  reach  the  village,  ask  the  way  to  St.  Leonard's. 
Arrived  at  your  journey's  end,  find  Colonel  Wadsworth,  or 
Major  Stuart,  or  Captain  Miller,  show  your  pass  and  tell  your 
errand,  and  they  will  direct  you  where  to  find  your  master. 
Do  you  understand  ?" 

«  Yes,  mist'ess." 

"  All  this  that  I  have  told  you  is  written  down  here  on 
this  piece  of  parchment ;  take  care  of  it,  lest  you  should  forget, 
and  lose  your  way." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I'll  be  berry  cautiencious." 

"  And  now  listen  to  me,  Jack  ;"  her  voice  broke  down, 
some  emotion  seemed  struggling  in  her  bosom  for  expres- 
Eion— •  she  quelled  it  and  went  on — "  When  you  find  your 
master,  write  to  me  at  once ;  thank  Heaven  I  taught  you^to 
write  !  write  then  to  me  at  once,  and  tell  me  how  he  is  Will 
you  promise  me  that1?" 

«  Faithful,  mist'ess— faithful  " 
26 


414  CATHERINE'S    PROGRESS 

"  And,  Jack,  -when  you  have  cn^.e  found  him,  t>e  fattnfu. 
unto  death  to  him.  Never  leave  him.  Nurse  him.  wait  ob 
him,  watch  over  him  day  and  night — do  so,  if  you  love  imu, 
Jack ;"  again  the  inward  struggle  choked  her  voice,  an<* 
when  she  resumed,  it  was  with  broken  and  faltering  accents  , 
"  and,  Jack,  attend — take  this  note — and  when  his  fever  *n 
o^-'-mind  you,  when  he  is  calm — give  it  to  hmic" 

"  Yes,  mist'ess,  dear." 

"  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  to  you.     Few  hasten. 
bye  •  and  may  Heaven  bless  and  speed 


IHB     NIGHT      JOURNEY. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

THE   NIGHT   JOURNEY. 


The  heart  once  brolcen  by  the  loved, 
Ts  strong  to  meet  the  flymen.— MRS. 

NEARLY  a  fortnight  of  extreme  anxiety  passed  away,  during 
winch  Catherine  heard  nothing  from  her  messenger.  On  the 
evening  of  the  thirteenth  day  of  his  departure,  however,  a 
letter  was  brought  to  her,  directed  in  the  well-known,  but 
alas  !  not  very  familiar  hand-writing  of  Major  Clifton.  Oh, 
joy !  He  was  living  then,  and  even  well  enough  to  write. 
With  a  fervent  ejaculation  of  deep  gratitude  to  Heaven,  she 
broke  the  seal.  But  her  face  paled  as  she  read — 

"  ON  BOARD  THE  BRITISH  SHIP  ALBION,  ) 
"  August  21st,  1814.      j 
"  CATHERINE  : — 

"  Are  you  then  destined  to  be  forever  fatal,  not  only  to 
me,  but  to  every  human  creature  that  is  faithful  to  me  ? 
See  what  your  reckless  disregard  of  others'  lives  has 
done ! — doomed  a  poor,  fond,  faithful  creature  to  a  felon's 
death  !  Attend,  woman  !  to  what  I  am  about  to  write.  I 
was  not  dangerously  wounded,  as  the  newspapers  reported, 
but  slightly  hurt,  and  taken  prisoner,  and  conveyed  on  board 
this,  the  Admiral's  ship — as  they  did  not  report.  Thus,  the 
poor  fellow,  whom  you  sent  on  this  death's  errand,  not  find 
ing  me  in  the  American  camp,  and  hearing  that  I  was  a  pris 
oner  on  board  the  British  fleet,  true  to  your  command,  to  find 
and  communicate  with  me,  and  reckless  of  his  own  danger, 
procured  a  boat  at  Benedict,  and  came  out  alongside  this 
ship.  You  know  the  result,  as  well  as  I  can  inform  you. 
The  wretched  boy  was  taken  and  put  in  irons  as  a  spy,  and 
has  been  doomed  to  be  hanged  at  the  yard-arm.  He  only 


416  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

waits  the  Admiral's  orders  for  execution.  My  own  incon 
venience  is  nothing  beside  his  cruel  fate — yet,  nevertheless, 
I  may  as  well  inform  you  that  I,  who  was  upon  parole,  when 
your  messenger  sought  to  communicate  with  me,  have  also  to 
thank  your  interference  for  being  put  under  arrest,  and  no 
thing  but  the  relaxation  of  strict  discipline,  incident  upon 
the  departure  of  the  two  commanders,  and  a  mere  foituity, 
affords  me  the  opportunity  of  writing,  and  sending  this  note. 
Admiral  Cockburn  and  General  Ross  are  now  on  their  march 
to  Washington  City.  And  my  object  in  writing  to  you  is 
merely  this :  to  assure  you,  by  all  my  hopes  of  salvation,  that 
unless  you,  in  your  unequaled  machiavelisni,  find  some  way 
of  saving  this  boy  from  death,  I  will  never  see,  or  speak  to 
you  again.  ARCHER  CLIFTON." 

Still  clasping  the  letter,  her  hand  and  head  fell  with  a 
gesture  of  utter  despair. 

"  Why,  what's  de  matter,  Miss  Kate,  honey  1  no  bad  news, 
I  trus',"  said  Henny. 

A  deep,  heart-breaking  sob  only  answered  her. 

"  My  goodness,  Miss  Kate,  deary,  what  is  it  den  ?  is  marster 
dead  ?  Oh,  deary  me,  Miss  Kate,  chile,  don't  keep  on  look 
ing  dat  a  way — 'deed,  you  puts  a  scare  on  to  me ! — don't ! 
Sider  how  it's  de  Lord's  will,  honey,  an'  let  de  tears  come, 
let  de  tears  come,  chile  !  Do,  honey.  'Deed,  troubles  like 
de  measles  j  ef  it  don't  break  out,  it  strikes  in  an'  kills  you 
dead—" 

A  gasp  from  Catherine,  and  a  gesture  imploring  silence, 
while  she  spanned  her  temples  with  both  hands,  and  tried  to 
think  clearly. 

"  My  gracious,  Miss  Kate,  dont  look  so  ghashly,  honey — 
don't.  Is  marster  dead,  sure  enough  ?" 

"  He's  not  dead,  he's  not  dead,"  said  Catherine,  huskily, 
while  she  waved  her  hand  for  peace. 

"  Well,  den,  honey,  long  as  der's  life  der's  hope,  an'  no 
vcasion  for  'spair.  Is  he  berry  bad,  honey  ?" 

"  He's  well — well,"  said  Catherine,  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Well,  den,  long  as  he's  well,  what  'casion  you  take  on 

so,  honey Oh  !  my  Lor' — taint — taint  poor  brother  Jack 

as  anything's  happened  to  ?" 

"  Oh,  Henny  !  Your  master  and  Jack  have  both  been 
taken  prisoners  by  Admiral  Cockburn !" 

'«  Oh,  Miss  Kate  !     Oh,  my  Lor',  Miss  Kate  !     An'  dey 


THE     K1GHT     JCURNEY.  417 

do  tell  me  how  lie  eats  his  prisoners  'live,"  exclaimed  Henny, 
falling  down  into  a  chair,  flinging  her  check  apron  over  hei 
head,  and  beginning  to  cry. 

Almost  heedless  of  her  handmaid's  violent  demonstra 
tions  of  grief  and  terror,  Catherine  walked  up  and  down  the 
floor,  with  her  hands  clasped  around  her  temples,  in  the  very 
agony  of  thought.  To  save  the  boy  from  death — how  was 
she,  at  that  remote  distance,  to  save  him  ?  Oh  !  it  seemed  <* 
mockery,  a  snare,  to  put  forgiveness  upon  such  an  impracti 
cable  condition  !  Yet  she  thought  him  no  setter  of  snares. 
She  thought  over  the  whole  of  the  letter,  searching  for  a 
hint ;  she  needed  not  to  look  at  it  again — every  line  and 
word  was  burned  in  upon  her  brain  and  heart — she  thought 
over  the  whole  of  it,  earnestly  searching  for  a  clue  to  action — 
she  found  it  at  length  in  the  phrases,  "  He  only  waits  the 
Admiral's  order  for  execution,"  and  "  Admiral  Cockburn  and 
General  Ross  are  now  on  their  march  to  Washington  City." 
She  thought  if  she  could  see  the  Admiral,  she  might  yet  save 
his  life- -of  so  little  worth  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  enemy,  but  of 
such  inestimable  value  to  her.  The  date  of  the  letter  was 
the  twenty-first — this  day  was  the  twenty-third.  "  Oh  !  he 
is  probably  executed  by  this  time,"  said  Despondency.  "  But 
possibly  not,"  said'Hope.  She  tried  to  think  clearly,  to  sepa 
rate  the  dreadful  chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  and  to  weigh 
and  adjust  circumstances,  so  as  she  might  decide  and  act 
promptly.  Admiral  Cockburn  and  General  Ross  must  be 
near  Washington,  if  they  had  not  already  reached  the  city. 
Washington  was  two  full  day's  journey  from  her  home, 
but  every  hour  was  precious,  for  life  and  death  might  hang 
upon  it.  She  could  perform  the  journey  in  a  day  and  night. 
Her  resolution  was  taken.  Going  up  to  where  Henny  sat 
crying,  and  rocking  herself  backward  and  forward,  she 
said — 

"  Rise,  Henny,  and  go  and  tell  James  to  saddle  my  horse, 
my  rou^h.  coated  po?iy,  Henny,  he  is  the  strongest  and  tho 
fleetest,  and  bring  him  around  to  the  door." 

«0h,  Miss  Kate!  does  you  think  he'll  eat  'em  suro 
'nough  ?" 

"  What  dc  you  mean,  Henny — are  you  crazy?" 

"  Admirable  Cockbu'n,  honey.  Does  you  think  he'll  eat 
Marse  Archy  an'  brother  Jack,  sure  'nough  ?  I  hopes  not, 
'cause  you  see,  chile,  brother  Jack,  he's  so  poor  an'  lean,  an* 
Aro^er,  he  mus'  be  tough  an'  stringy  'nough,  too  lony 


418  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

o'  all  dis  yer  warfarin',  but  Lor',  'haps  he'll  think  der  good 
'nough  for  sojers  rations,  and  give  'em  to  dem." 

"  Henny  that  is  all  a  notion." 

"  'Bout  der  eaten  'em,  honey  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes — don't  stop  me  now,  Henny!  hasten !  hasten  ' 
$uick !  quick,  Henny !  Have  my  pony  caught,  and  theu 
urry  back  to  me." 

"  But,  Miss  Kate,  are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'm  sure.     Oh  !  hurry,  hurry!" 

The  woman  went  out,  and  Catherine  sat  down  and  penned 

hasty  note  to  her  neighbor,  the  down-east  tenant  of  Hard- 
bargain,  requesting  him  to  give  a  slight  supervision  of  affairs 
jit  White  Cliffs  during  her  absence  for  a  few  days.  By  tho 
time  she  had  sealed  and  directed  it,  Henny  re-appeared. 

"  Go  fetch  my  riding-dress,  Henny,"  was  her  next  prompt 
eoinmand. 

"  My  goodness,  Miss  Kate,  where — " 

"  Go,  Henny,  at  once,  and  don't  stay  to  question  me." 

The  maid  obeyed,  and  her  mistress  rang  the  bell,  and 
gave  the  note  she  had  written  to  a  boy,  to  carry  to  Hard- 
bargain. 

As  he  left  the  room,  Henny  entered  it  with  the  riding- 
nabit. 

"  Help  me  on  with  it  at  once,  Henny,"  said  Catherine, 
meeting  her. 

"  My  goodness,  Miss  Kate !  you  to  be  goin'  out  this  time 
o'  night,  an'  we-dem  in  so  much  trouble.  You  didn'  ax  me 
to  tell  nobody  who  wur  to  wait  on  you ;  but  Jeemes,  he's 
gettin'  ready." 

"  No,  no.  I  don't  want  anybody." 

"  Dear  me,  mist'ess,  honey,  where's  you  gwine  ?" 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  To  Washington  City." 

"  To  Washington  '?"  exclaimed  Henny,  letting  the  dress 
>'all  from  her  hands,  and  looking  up  in  stupor. 

"  Yes,  yes,  didn't  I  tell  you — to  "Washington,  to  see  Ad 
miral  Cockburn,  and  save  your  brother.  I  do  not  believe 
of  Cockburn — I  never  believe  of  any  one — as  ill  as  is  reported 
of  them,  and  I  think  if  1  go  and  make  a  proper  representation 
to  him,  I  shall  be  able  to  save  Jack." 

Henny  stood  gazing  at  her  mistress  in  the  same  stupor. 

"  Come,  come,  Henny !  give  me  the  other  sleeve  around 
here,"  said  Catherine,  impatiently. 

Still  Henny  st^od  and  stared  in  a  stupor,  until  suddenly 


THE      NIGHT     JOURNE5T.  419 

all  her  muscles  and  limbs  gave  way,  and  she  sank  down  be 
fore  her  mistress,  embraced  her  knees,  looked  up  into  her 
face,  and  said,  in  tones  of  earnest,  deep  affection — 

"  Don't  go,  mist'ess,  don't  go — don't  trust  yerse'f  long  «' 
Admirable  Cockburn  an'  his  hang-gallows  sojers.  Don't." 

"  I  must,  Henny." 

"  Oh  !  no,  no.  Memorize  what  happened  at  Raison  River, 
in?  at  Ham'ton,  how  dey  nyder  spared  sexes  nor  ages — nyder 
ole  paralytic  men  nor  little  babies,  nor  der  young  moders — 
dem  leastes'  ob  all.  Don't  mist'ess,  dear." 

"  I  must  Henny.  It  is  the  only  chance  of  saving  your 
brother." 

"  Oh,  dear  me  !  Oh,  my  heart's  ready  for  to  break  ;  but 
nebber  mind — don't  go,  mist'ess,  don't  go.  Let  him  die, 
mist'ess,  tain't  nothin'  only  but  death  arter  all!  an'  Ad 
mirable  Cockburn,  'save  his  funnelly  soul,  can't  do  nuffin' 
'tall  but  kill  him.  An',  poor  fellow,  he  hadn'  long  to  live 
no  how,  wid  a'sumption  in  his  breas',  an'  so  it  on'y  comes 
a  little  sooner  an'  a  little  deffunt  like.  Don't  go,  Miss  Kate, 
dear,  let  him  die.  I'se  his  sister,  an'  I'se  been  a  mammy  to 
him,  but  I  sez  so,  an'  he'd  say  so,  too,  brother  Jack  would, 
ef  he  could  on'y  speak  long  o'  you !  Sure  he'd  lay  down  his 
life  willin',  an'  so  would  us  all,  sooner  'an  you  should  fall 
in  wid  Admirable  Cockburn." 

"  I  know  it,  Henny !  I  know  it !  Don't  talk  to  me  any 
longer,  though  every  word  you  say  but  fixes  my  resolution 
to  go." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Kate !  oh !  don't,  don't''  exclaimed  Henny, 
clasping  her  knees,  and  repeating  all  the  arguments  and 
entreaties  she  had  used  before.  But  Catherine  was  firm 
as  sad. 

"  If  you  VMS'  make  an  effort,  sen'  a  messenger  long 
of  a  note,  Miss  Kate.  Dar!  do  dat — now  dat's  a  good 
trought." 

"  Ah,  Heaven  forbid  !  I  have  had  enough  of  risking  pooi 
:gnorant  creatures,  who  cannot  keep  themselves  out  of 
danger." 

1  Well,  den,  Miss  Kate,  who  is  you  gwinc  for  to  take  long 
o'  you,  to  wait  on  you,  chile  P' 

"  There,  give  me  my  hat,  Henny." 

"  Yes,  honey,  who's  you  gwiiie  to  tak3  wid  you?" 

"  I  told  you  no  one,  Henny — where  are  my  gloves  ?" 

«  Here  <^y  i*,  honey.     Oh,  mist'ess,  dat's  susanside,  ac1 


420  TUB       NT  a  ITT       JOURNEY. 

nothirT  'tall  else.  Take  Jeemes  'long  o'  you !  lie's  brave 
as  a  lion — comes  to  'fendin'  at  yow." 

"  No,  James  would  need  rest  and  food  on  the  journey — I 
shall  require — I  shall  stop  for  neither.  Besides  there  is  oot 
a  horse  here  who  could  bear  his  weight  continuously  for  so 
lung  a  journey.  My  strong  little  mountain  pony,  I  think, 
niiy  carry  my  light  weight  to  the  journey's  end  with  very 
little  stopping." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Kate  !   'deed  I  shall  pray  for  you."^ 

"  Yes,  do,  Henny — that  is  the  only  way  in  which  you  can 
help  me.  Come,  go  with  me  out." 

"  Stay,  mist'ess,  stay  one  minute !  Ise  trought  ob  auoder 
trought." 

«  Well  ?» 

"Long  as  you  will  go  onattended,  please  don't  be  'noyed 
at  what  I'm  gwinc  to  say." 

"  Only  be  quick,  Henny,  that  is  all." 

"  Well,  den,  'long  as  you  will  go  widout  any  'fence  or 
Section—" 

"  Except  the  Lord,  Henny." 

"  Yes,  honey,  sure  'nough — 'cept  de  Lord's — hadn't  you 
better  put  on — hem — a-hem — male  boy's  clothes  ?" 

«  What  ?" 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  more  of  a  'tection  to  you  ?  Now,  der'a 
a  suit  in  de  house,  you  calls  to  min',  as  'ill  jus'  fit  you.  Dem 
as  'longed  to  Miss  Greorgy,  when  she  were  a  masquerade- 
play-actorin'  here  wid  de  city  folks,  here  one  Christmas 
Dey'd  fit  you  to  a  tee." 

"  No,  thank  you,  Henny  !" 

"  You  ain't  mad  'long  o'  me  for  say  in'  of  it,  is  you,  Miss 
Kate  ?" 

"  Mad  ?     Poor  girl !     No,  Kenny." 

"  Nor  likewise  'noyed  in  yer  feelin's  V9 

"  No,  no,  you  did  but  mistake,"  answered  Catherine, 
getting  into  her  saddle,  while  James  held  the  pony,  and 
Ilenny  affectionately  arranged  the  riding  skirt  around  her 
feet  and  handed  her  the  whip. 

"  There,  there,  that  will  do ;  good-bye,  all  of  you,"  said 
Catherine,  feverishly. 

Henny  burst  into  loud  wailing.  Catherine  paused  and 
'aid  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  silencing  her  while  she 
«aid — 

"  Mv  poor  girl,  do  n**  fear      I  have  committex1  myself  to 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  421 

the  Lora !  I  am  in  His  hands.  T  trust  in  Him,  else  T 
ghould  not  dare  do  this  which  seems  to  you  so  much  like 
madness.  I  trust  in  Him,  and  no  evil  can  befall  me."1 

"  But  oh  !  mist'ess,  mist'ess  !  If  you  should  arter  a^ 
perish !" 

"If  I  perish,  I  perish! — it  will  be  no  evil  if  the  Lord 
permits  it !" 

"  I  doesn't  b'lieve  de  Lord  am  gwine  fur  to  'mit  it !  I  feels 
safe  'bout  young  mist'ess,  /  does  !  I  b'lieves  how  ef  Admi 
rable  Cockburn  or  any  of  his  jail-birds  was  to  come  fur  to 
sturve  Mist'ess,  trustin'  in  Hebben  as  she  does,  how  a  thun 
derbolt  would  strike  him  down  sooner,  an'  she  as  puts  hei 
trus'  in  de  Lord,  should  come  to  any  harm." 

"  Yes,  or  a  yethquake,  if  ne'ssary  !"  exclaimed  the  more 
ardent  Henny.  *'  I  ain't  'feard  for  you  no  longer,  mist'css 
dear !  Hebben  is  wid  you  !" 

Catherine  waved  her  hand  in  adieu,  gave  reins  to  her  pony 
which  bounded  beneath  her,  and  seemed  to  fly  over  the  lawn. 
She  was  fevered,  excited — "  mad  ipspired,"  say  either. 
Night  was  closing  darkly  around  her,  hut  its  sedative  sha 
dows  had  no  power  to  soothe  her  exceed  nerves — the  dews 
were  falling,  but  they  had  no  efficacy  to  cool  her  fevered 
veins ;  a  long  journey  lay  before  her,  hut  its  length  could 
not  discourage  her ;  dangers  were  thicHy  strown  about  her 
path,  but  they  could  not  appall  her ;  her  only  desire,  her 
only  anxiety,  was  to  reach  her  destination  in  season,  if  pos 
sible,  to  rescue  this  boy  from  death,  because  he  was  dear  to 
Cl^ton — dearer  than  she  herself,  his  wife,  was,  she  now 
thought;  and  now  her  life  itself  seem«4  of  little  worth, 
since"  the  hope  that  was  life's  earthly  end,  was  laid  low. 
Her  only  remaining  hope  was  to  save  tbw  life — her  only 
remaining  fear,  to  fail  in  doing  so. 

Her  path,  for  many  miles,  lay  through  the  deep,  intermi 
nable  wilderness  of  forest,  that,  rising  and  falling  with  the 
low  mountain  ranges,  extended  over  more  than  half  th^ 
county.  Her  path  was  so  narrow,  and  the  branches  of  tlx, 
trees  often  so  low  and  interlaced,  that  a  single  start  of  her 
horse,  or  a  single  moment's  hesitation  to  bow  her  head, 
might  have  dashed  her  brains  out  against  the  intersecting 
branches  of  the  trees.  And  in  the  deep  darkness  of  th« 
night,  and  in  the  despairing  absence  of  her  perceptive  facul 
ties,  this  danger  beset  her  every  instant.  But  she  rode  on, 
liki  a  nr^nouiroiac,  ptrangely  heedless,  and,  like  a  soninaiii- 


122  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

bulist,  strangely  preserved.  As  night  deepened,  and  low 
ered,  and  thickened  around  her  in  the  awful  depths  of  the 
•wilderness,  the  distant  howl  of  the  hungry  wolf,  the  nearer 
cry  of  the  fierce  wild  cat,  and  once  the  more  fearful  whistle- 
signal  of  some  outlawed  desperado  fell  upon  her  ear.  But 
even  these  appalling  sounds  struck  no  terror  to  a  heart, 
stunned  by  despair  into  insensibility  to  danger.  And  she 
rode  on  through  these  terrific  perils,  strangely  unconscious, 
and  strangely  protected. 

At  length,  as  she  descended  the  last  steep,  and  drew  neai 
to  the  outskirts  of  the  wilderness,  the  lights  of  the  small 

village  of  L gleamed  through  the  interstices  of  the 

woods — appearing  and  disappearing,  jack-o'-lanternlike,  until 
phe  emerged  from  the  forest  and  came  full  upon  the  hamlet. 
It  was  so  late  at  night,  that  all  the  houses  were  shut  and 
dark,  and  the  only  lights  were  those  she  had  seen  in  the  fo 
rest, — the  lights  of  the  stage  and  post  office.  She  passed 
like  a  meteor  through  the  gloomy  street,  eliciting  only  a 
"  What  the  deuce  was  that  ?"  from  a  loiterer  in  the  stage- 
office,  who  had  seen  her  flight,  and  emerged  again  upon  an 
open  plain,  over  which  her  road  lay  for  many  miles.  Anothet 
village  gleamed  up  from  the  plains — was  reached,  passed, 
and  left  far  behind  with  the  same  lightning-like  speed. 

She  rode  all  night,  less  sensible  to  danger  and  fatigue  than 
the  hardy  little  mountain  pony  that  was  carrying  her  light 
weight,  but  straining  every  nerve  and  sinew  in  the  service. 
The  night  was  deeply  dark — the  clouds  thick,  heavy  and 
lowering ;  she  had  no  means  of  computing  time  or  distance, 
but  farms,  forests  and  fields  continued  to  loom,  appear  and 
vanish,  as  she  fled  past  them.  She  watched  the  East  with 
feverish  anxiety  for  day.  But  still  mountain,  meadow,  and 
moorland  came  and  went,  as  she  approached  and  hurried 
by  them,  and  still  deep  darkness  hung  like  a  pall  over 
Heaven  and  earth.  Vainly  she  watched  the  East,  for 
hamlet,  village  or  town  in  turn  was  seen  and  reached  and  left 
behind,  and  still  a  wall  of  dense  blackness  blocked  up  the 
Orient. 

A  new  and  very  serious  danger  threatened  her  every  in 
stant — her  poor  horse,  fatigued  nearly  to  death,  was  ready  to 
fall,  and  she  did  not  know  it.  He  reeled  and  tottered,  and 
'tumbled  and  recovered  himself  many  times,  and  she  did  not 
sea  or  feel  it !  nay,  she  mechanically  exerted  every  nerve 
*rd  sinew  tA  hold  him  up,  and  keep  him  on  his  foct,  wliile 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  423 

totally  unconscious    of    her  own   exertion.     Like    a   sleep 
walker  was  she  in  her  deep  abstraction. 

She  was  in  a  deep  forest  again  riding  for  life,  and  the 
Veins  in  her  arms  were  swelled  out  like  cords,  with  straining 
to  hold  the  horse  up  on  his  feet.  She  could  no  longer  see  (he 
Eastern  horizon,  but  it  was  growing  lighter,  and  she  knew  that 
morning  was  dawning.  She  rode  on,  and  on,  and  on,  and 
at  length  came  out  of  the  forest  in  time  to  see  the  level  rays 
of  the  rising  sun  striking  redly  across  the  fields.  The  win 
dows  of  a  farm-house  flashing  back  the  early  light  gleamed 
upon  her  vision,  and  at  the  same  time  her  horse  reeled  and 
fell  with  her.  "  Good  Lord  !"  "  Are  you  hurt  ?"  «  llun 
here,  Tim."  "  Call  your  mist'ess,  Peter."  "  Where  are  you 
hurt,  lady  ?  can  you  tell  us  ?" 

Catherine  awoke  as  out  of  a  dream,  to  see  many  people 
around  her  all  asking  questions,  and  all  attempting  to  extri 
cate  her  from  her  saddle.  She  passed  her  hand  across  her 
ibrow,  as  was  her  wont  when  trying  to  dispel  thought,  and 
she  looked  at  them  in  perplexity. 

"  My  Lord,  I'm  afraid  she's  very  much  hurt !  Can  you 
/peak,  lady  ?  Where  is  your  injury  ?"  said  the  eldest  man 
jf  the  party,  at  length,  lifting  her  in  his  arms. 

"  I — no — I'm  not  hurt — not  the  least ;  is  the  horse  ?" 

"  We  don't  know,  ma'am  ;  I'm  sure  it's  a  blessed  thing 
you're  not  killed  yourself,"  said  another  of  the  group,  who, 
with  several  more,  were  trying  to  raise  the  pony  upon  his 
legs. 

"  Pray  put  me  down  upon  my  feet.  Thank  you.  I'm  not 
hurt.  How  far  is  Washington  City  from  this  place  ?"  said 
Catherine,  as  she  stood  watching  her  horse. 

"  Good  forty  miles,  lady.  I  don't  think  he's  hurt,  but 
poor  fellow,  he's  trembling  with  fatigue,"  said  the  farmer, 
answering  her,  and  then  examining  the  horse,  which  was 
raised  at  last  and  stood  trembling  and  blowing. 

"  Can  he  take  me  to  Washington  to-day  ?"  asked  Cathe 
rine,  as  she  leaned  against  the  fence  for  support. 

«  He  ? — Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  !  Why  look  at  him,  lady : 
Besides,  can  you  go  there  yourself  anyhow  ?  Why  you're 
ready  to  drop  now  !  .Better  go  in  and  let  the  old  woman 
put  you  to  bed  and  give  you  some  breakfast." 

"It  is  true  I'm  very  stiff  and  weary — having  ridden  all 
nigh*.  But  I  must  reach  Washington  without  delay ;.  there 
is  one  I  ™».re  about  under  sentence  of  death.  If  I  reach 


424  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

there  in  time,  I  may  get  a  reprieve  and  save  him.  I  musl 
go  to-day."  Catherine  spoke  this,  frequently  pausing  fot 
breath.  When  she  ceased — 

"  Some  of  her  'lations  gwine  to  be  hung,  an'  she  gwine  to 
ee  President  Madison  to  get  him  off!  May  dejcu',  that's 
it!"  whispered  one  farm  laborer  to  another. 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  a  horse  to  take  me  there  to-day  T 
I  will  pay  twice — ten  times  his  value,;s  laid  Catherine,  raising 
her  heavy  eyelids  to  the  old  farmer's  kind  face. 

"  Lady,  I'll  let  you  have  another  horse  in  two  hours  from 
this,  on  condition  that  you  go  in  to  my  old  woman  and  t.iko 
some  refreshment,  and  lie  down  to  rest  for  that  time.  And 
not  a  minute  sooner,  and  not  on  any  other  terms  whatsoever, 
even  if  it  was  your  father  was  going  to  be  hanged — would  I 
let  you  have  a  horse ;  because  I  see  very  clearly  that,  unless 
you  take  some  rest,  you  will  drop  down  dead  before  you  get 
a  mile  farther  on  your  road." 

"It  is  true — it  is  the  voice  of  Providence,  I  think — I 
thank  you  very  much  ;  I  will  rest.  Please  take  care  of  my 
poor  pony." 

"  He  shall  be  looked  after,  lady.  Take  my  arm."  And 
the  worthy  farmer  drew  Catherine's  arm  within  his  own,  and 
carefully  and  respectfully  supported  her  to  the  house,  where 
he  gave  her  into  the  charge  of  his  wife,  saying,  "  Here,  wait 
upon  this  lady,  honey  1  be  a  mother  to  her,  honey  !  for  she's 
sorrowfully  in  want  of  one." 

The  farmer's  wife  placed  her  in  a  stuffed  chair,  drew  off 
her  gloves,  untied  her  hat  and  removed  it,  unfastened  hei 
spencer,  and  asked  her  if  she  would  have  breakfast,  which 
was  just  ready  to  go  on  the  table. 

"  No,  thank  you.  You  are  very  kind.  The  Lord  reward 
you.  But — rest,  I  want  only  rest,"  said  Catherine,  ready  to 
swoon,  for  the  sense  of  fatigue  was  growing  upon  her. 

"  Yes,  rest,  that's  all  she  wants,  or  rather  that's  the  most 
she  wants  now  !  Put  her  to  bed  !  let  her  sleep  for  two  hours, 
and  have  a  cup  of  strong  coffee  and  a  broiled  chicken  ready 
fnr  her  when  she  wakes.  That  will  set  her  up  again,  and 
help  her  to  reach  her  journey's  end,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
man. 

Supported  by  the  farmer's  wife,  Catherine  was  guided  up 
the  stairs  to  a  cool  and  quiet  room,  where  she  dropped  upon 
the  bed.  No  sooner  had  her  head  touched  the  pillow,  than 
the  loom.  th6  white- washed  wall,  blue  window-curtains,  the 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  425 

tn  the  wliilened  fire-place,  the  picture  of  the  an- 
•nunciation    over    the    mantle-piece — all   reeled  around    her 
senses  as  a,  vision,  and  wheeled  off,  carrying  with  them  tho 
outside  worlrt  and  all  consciousness  of  being. 

To  her,  existence  v^as  blotted  out  for  two  hours. 

"  Wake  up,  lady  :  wake  up  !  your  breakfast  is  ready,  and 
go  is  your  horse  I" 

Catherine  started  iu>  at  the  voice  of  her  landlady,  and 
gazed  around,  bewildered.  Then  memory  flashed  upon  her, 
and  she  sprung  to  her  feet,  and  began  hastily  and  nervously 
to  fasten  her  habit. 

"  Here  is  water,  lady,  ant*  napkins — and  is  there  anything 
else  I  can  bring  you  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you,  you  are  very  good." 

"  How  do  you  find  yourself  V'5 
Better — I  think.     How  long  have  I  slept  ?" 

"  Just  two  hours.  I  wished  to  let  you  lie  longer,  but  my 
dear  old  fellow  insisted  on  keeping  his  word  with  you." 

"  I'm  glad  he  did.  It  was  very  needful.  But  you  aro 
kind,  and  I  thank  you." 

Catherine  bathed  her  head  and  face,  and  the  good  hostess 
combed  and  arranged  her  hair,  and  fastened  her  habit  and 
took  her  down  stairs,  where  a  comfortable  breakfast  awaited 
her.  It  was  yet  but  seven  o'clock,  and  the  farmer  assured 
her  that  she  had  time  enough  to  reach  Washington  by  night 
fall,  and  that  she  would  be  far  better  able  to  do  it  from 
having  had  this  rest.  She  hastily  swallowed  a  few  mouthful.? 
of  food,  drank  a  cup  of  strong  coffee,  that  gave  her  a  sort 
of  fictitious  strength,  and  then  arose  from  the  table  and 
quickly  prepared  to  resume  her  journey.  The  good  woman 
followed  her  with  many  kind  wishes,  and  the  good  man  set 
her  in  her  saddle,  and  while  adjusting  her  comfortably,  gave 
directions  about  the  nearest  way  to  W—  — ,  the  next  con 
siderable  town  upon  the  road.  Then  he  gave  her  the  reins, 
and  prayed  God  to  bless  her.  She  thanked  her  kind  hosts 
earnestly  again,  put  whip  to  her  horse  and  galloped  away, 
leaving  her  valuable  pony  in  pledge. 

The  farm-house,  with  its  garden,  orchard  and  vineyard, 
barns,  wheat-stack  and  stubble-fields  vanished  behind  her 
flying  steed.  The  country  was  now  open,  and  she  flew  OL 
and  on  before  the  wind.  And  now  she  had  entered  the 
forest,  and  she  hurried  through  its  deep  shadows,  flecked 
with  golden  sun-glances.  When  she  emerged  again,  and 


126  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

fonnd  herself  in  the  open  meadows,  it  was  high  BOOT*,  and  th« 
Augu:  t  sun  was  pouring  clown  his  burning  rays  with  intolera 
ble  power.  But  on  and  on  she  rode,  unconscious  of  suffering 
in  herself,  and  unheedful  of  the  fatigue  of  her  panting  and 
perspiring  steed. 

It  was  two  hours  past  noon  when  she  reached  the  town  of 

W -,  and  at  the  very  first  inn  on  the  suburbs  her  horse 

stopped,  of  his  own  will,  nor  could  she,  with  all  her  efforts, 
persuade  or  force  him  to  budge  a  step.  A  boy,  a  colored 
woman,  and  then  the  landlord,  his  wife  and  all  the  children 
came  out,  to  see  a  lady  riding,  unattended,  who  could  not 
make  her  horse  go. 

"  He  wants  food  and  drink,  I  suppose,"  said  Catherine,  to 
the  landlord,  who  at  last  came  to  offer  her  aid.  And  then 
she  alighted,  and  requesting  the  host  to  have  the  animal  at 
tended,  very  quickly,  followed  the  landlady,  who  conducted  her 
into  the  rustic  parlor.  She  was  now  so  fatigued  and  stiffened, 
that  the  act  of  standing  or  walking  was  really  painful,  so 
she  sank  down  upon  the  lounge,  and  declining  all  the  land 
lady's  offers  of  refreshment,  waited  a  weary  half  hour,  while 
her  horse  was  feeding.  At  the  and  of  that  time,  she  mounted 
again,  and  resumed  her  journey.  She  passed  through  the 
town,  and  over  the  wooded  hills  that  environed  it  on  the 
east,  and  came  down  upon  the  plains.  The  heat  of  the  after 
noon  was  of  that  close,  breathless,  insufferable  kind,  that 
always  forebodes  an  awful  storm.  The  sense  of  suffering 
was  beginning  to  force  itself  upon  her,  and  as  for  the  animal 
she  rode,  she  could  not,  by  any  means,  coax  or  drive  him 
beyond  a  walk.  Then  her  rnind  became  again  anxiously 
concentrated  upon  the  end  of  her  journey,  to  the  total  ex 
clusion  of  all  other  thought,  and  all  sense.  It  was  in  this 
state  that  she  arrived  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  bill,  covered  with* 
copse-wood,  ascended  its  top,  descended  the  other  side,  and 
reached  a  small  river  at  its  foot.  She  drew  up  her  feet, 
doubled  her  riding-skirt  up  over  the  horse's  shoulders,  and 
guided  him  into  the  ford,  and — with  the  water  splashing 
around,  and  rising  even  to  the  animal's  neck,  she  crossed 
the  river — so  mechanically,  so  unconsciously,  that  had  pcoplu 
asked  her,  thereafter,  whether  she  had  forded  a  stream  in  her 
journey,  she  could  not  have  told  them. 

The  sun  was  declining  to  his  setting,  and  the  sky  was 
lieavy  with  clouds,  while  still  the  air  was  close,  sultry, 
stifling  aid  expressive,  Everything  indicated  the  approach 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  427 

before  long  of  a  tremendous  tornado.  The  shades  of  even 
ing  were  falling  thickly  around  her  when  she  was  passing 
through  the  dense,  low-lying  forest  south-west  of  Washing 
ton.  When  she  emerged  from  its  deep  obscurity  and  came 
out  into  the  open  country,  an  alarming  phenomenon  arrested 
her  attention  ;  the  eastern  horizon  was  luridly  lighted  by  a 
ow,  dull,  red  glow,  like  the  earliest  dawn  of  a  wintry  morn 
ing.  Her  road  led  directly  towards  this  murky  light,  and 
her  eyes  were  fascinated  to  it.  As  she  rode  and  gazed,  the 
blood-tinged  illumination  seemed  to  glow  and  brighten  on  her 
vision,  and  presently  after,  began  to  send  up  meteoric  streams 
of  fire  towards  the  clouds.  As  the  distance  lessened  between 
herself  and  the  awful  conflagration,  it  began  to  illumine  her 
path  more  and  more  distinctly  and  fearfully,  until  every  ob- 
ject^or  miles  around  was  plainly  visible  in  the  lurid  glare. 
/And  tnfcn  at  last  Catherine  recognized  it  for  a  burning  city— 
the  city  oiNWashington  wrapped  in  flames  ! 

On  descending  the  road  towards  the  Potomac,  a  scene 
difficult  to  describe  met  her  view.  All  up  and  down  the  river 
and  on  either  shore,  were  seen  in  the  red  glare  multitudes 
of  fugitives — some  seeking  to  cross,  some  in  boats  on  tho 
water,  and  some  landed  and  hurrying  in  disorder  up  the 
country.  Soon  after  this,  she  met  great  numbers  of  terrified 
women  and  children,  flying  from  their  desolated  homes.  The 
greatest  possible  consternation  and  confusion  prevailed  among 
these  panic-stricken  fugitives.  The  most  terrific  reports 
were  rife :  That  the  enemy  were  in  hot  pursuit — that  the 
slaves  had  been  incited  to  revolt,  aad  mad  with  emancipa 
tion,  and  drunk  with  all  manner  of  licentious  excess,  were 
perpetrating  more  horrible  and  revolting  atrocities  than  those 
which  at  Hampton,  the  year  before,  steeped  the  country  in 
blood  and  shame. 

Rendered  by  despair  senseless  as  the  dead  to  all  thcst 
dangers,  Catherine  laboriously  pushed  and  threaded  her  way 
down  the  road,  blocked  up  with  horses,  carriages,  foot-pas 
sengers,  baggage  wagons,  cattle,  and  all  the  miscellaneous 
emptyings  of  a  hastily  and  fearfully  evacuated  city.  As  she 
drew  near  the  Long  Bridge,  she  heard  by  the  frightened 
talk  of  the  flying  multitude,  that  the  end  of  the  bridge  on 
the  Virginia  side  had  been  burned  to  prevent,  or  at  least 
delay,  the  pursuit  of  the  enemy.  She  then  turned  her  horse's 
head  up  the  course  of  the  river,  with  the  intention  of  crossing 
by  the  Georgetown  Ferry  She  had  no  trouble  in  picking 


423  THE       NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

her  way  through  the  thicket  under  the  hills  that  bordered  thd 
Potomac  from  this  point,  for  every  minutest  cbject  on  the 
way  was  made  painfully  distinct  by  the  light  of  the  burning 
city.  When  nearly  opposite  G-eorgetowii,  she  descried  the 
ferry-boat  put  off  from  the  other  shore,  and  propelled  rapidly 
across  the  r~cr.  She  stopped  her  horse,  intending  to  wait 
and  return  with  it.  In  less  than  five  minutes  it  touched  the 
beach,  and  a  carriage  with  a  small  party  of  ladies,  escorted 
by  a  guard  of  nine  cavalry  volunteers,  landed. 

In  the  hurried  consultation  that  ensued  among  them, 
Catherine  learned  that  the  party  consisted  of  Mrs.  Madison 
and  her  friends  and  attendants,  flying  from  the  burning 
Presidential  Mansion.  When  they  had  turned  their  horses' 
Veads  up  the  river  road,  Catherine  rode  down  to  the  boat, 
iu.d  addressed  herself  to  the  ferryman,  asking  to  be  taken 
over.  The  man  looked  at  her  in  astonishment,  and  when  he 
saw  that  she  was  in  earnest,  advised  her  strongly  against  the 
trip,  telling  her  that  she  had  best  turn  rein  and  ride  as  fast 
and  as  far  as  possible  in  the  opposite  direction — that  every 
one  had  fled  or  was  flying  from  Washington,  that  the  city 
was  in  the  undisputed  possession  of  the  enemy,  who  were 
demolishing,  burning  and  laying  waste  the  metropolis  at 
pleasure.  There  was  no  need  to  tell  that — the  fact  was 
awfully  visible  by  the  light  of  the  great  conflagration.  But 
Catherine  still  persisted  in  her  purpose,  replying  to  his  ob 
jections  that  some  one  whom  she  did  not  wish  to  desert  was 
in  the  hands  of  the  enemy  ;  and  at  last  prevailed  upon  him 
to  put  her  across. 

She  was  landed  on  the  flats  west  of  the  city.  Here  crowds 
of  women  and  children,  pale  with  terror,  and  weeping  and 
wailing  for  their  ruined  city  and  lost  homes,  waited  impa 
tiently  to  be  taken  across  the  river,  out  of  the  way  of  more 
horrible  fates,  which  the  atrocious  reputation  of  Cockburn 
and  his  Cossacks  reasonably  taught  them  to  dread.  Cathe 
rine  left  them  hurrying  in  mad  confusion  into  the  boat,  while 
she  hastened  on  to  the  very  scene  of  peril  from  which  they 
were  flying.  She  passed  swiftly  over  the  low  and  marsh}' 
fields  that  then  lay  between  the  river  and  the  heart  of  the 
city,  and  entered  upon  Twenty-first  Street,  above  the  War 
Department,  and  turned  into  Pennsylvania  Avenue. 

What  a  scene !  Volumes  of  smoke,  as  from  an  enormous 
volcano,  were  disgorged  in  massive  clouds,  and  settled  like  a 
olack  canopy  over  the  doomed  city.  The  President's  Pr lace 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  429 

and  the  Treasury  Building,  swathed  in  their  shrouds  of  fire, 
illumined  all  the  scene  with  terrific  splendor.  Even  at  the 
distance  of  several  hundred  yards  off,  her  eyes  ached  with 
the  insufferable  light  and  scorching  heat.  At  the  distance 
of  a  mile,  the  Capitol,  wrapped  in  its  mantle  of  flame,  sent 
forth  a  hail-storm  of  sparks  and  burning  brands. 

In  strange  and  awful  contrast  to  this  apalling  progress  of 
destruction,  was  the  dread  silence  that  reigned  over  the  full 
ing  city.  All  the  terror,  consternation,  hurry  and  distrac 
tion  were  left  without.  Here,  upon  the  very  scene  of  action, 
all  was  comparatively  quiet.  The  houses  were  shut  up,  and 
if  they  contained  any  inmates,  they  were  hiding  in  obscurity. 
The  streets  seemed  forsaken  by  the  conquerors,  as  by  the 
cowjuered.  There  was  no  shout  of  soldiery,  no  martial  music, 
ixri  sign  ob^xpression  of  a  grand  military  triumph  anywhere, 
-'no  sound  to  fre^heard  from  the  powerful  enemy  in  possession, 
except  a  distant,  dull,  heavy,  monotonous  tramp,  as  of  many 
retreating  hoofs.  The  flames  were  doing  their  work  of  de 
struction  in  silence,  only  broken  by  the  occasional  crash  of 
some  falling  roof,  cupola,  or  pillar,  or  some  reverberating  ex 
plosion.  Catherine  passed  under  the  blinding  glare  and 
scathing  heat  of  the  burning  Treasury  Building,  and  turning 
the  elbow  of  the  Avenue,  came  upon  a  sentinel,  who  instantly 
levelled  his  musket  and  challenged  her,  with  "  Who  goes 
there  ?" 

"  The  Admiral,"  said  Catherine,  drawing  rein. 

The  seniinel  lowered  his  musket  with  a  surly  "  Pass  on," 
followed  by  a  low,  insulting  comment.  Catherine  had  merely 
intended  to  express  her  errand,  and  had  chanced  upon  the 
countersign. 

"  Where  shall  I  find  your  commander  ?"  she  next  said. 

«  The  General  ?" 

«  No— Admiral  Cockburn." 

"  Corporal,"  said  the  soldier,  in  a  low,  distinct  voice.  The 
Corporal  of  the  Guard  advanced. 

"  What  did  you  want,  mum  ?" 

"To  be  conducted  to  the  presence  of  the  Admiral,"  an 
swered  Catherine,  with  an  imploring  glance.     Perhaps  some 
thing   in  her  countenance  moved  the  pity  of  the  officer- 
perhaps  he  thought  her  a  sufferer  from  the  devastation  of  the 
city.     At  least  he  volunteered  to  be  her  guide,  and  request 
ing  her  to  accompany  him,  led  the  way  down  the  avenue 
towards  the  Capitol 
27 


430  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

"  Did  you  know,  mum,  that  a  curfew  had  been  proclaimed, 
and  the  citizens  forbidden  to  appear  in  the  streets  after  eight 
o'clock  in  the  evening  ?" 

"  No,  and  if  I  had,  I  should  have  been  still  obliged  to 
disregard  it,  for  a  matter  of  more  than  life  and  death  hangs 
upon  my  interview  with  the  Admiral,"  replied  Catherine, 
speaking  out  of  the  fullness  of  her  heart. 

The  distance  between  the  Treasury  Building  and  the  Cap 
itol  was  about  one  mile,  and  the  glare  of  the  conflagration  at 
each  end,  revealed  a  line  of  sentinels,  posted  at  regular  in 
tervals  the  whole  length  of  the  avenue. 

A  ride  of  ten  minutes  brought  them  to  the  encampment 
of  the  enemy  on  the  Capitol  Hill,  east  of  the  burning  edi 
fice.  Here,  indeed,  prevailed  much  of  the  noise  and  disorder 
consequent  upon  the  relaxation  of  discipline  after  a  day  of 
severe  action.  Nearly  four  thousand  men  were  resting,  some 
leaning  upon  their  muskets,  some  seated  upon  the  grass,  and 
some  flat  upon  the  ground,  in  the  death-like  sleep  of  drunk 
enness  or  exhaustion. 

A  group  of  officers,  with  their  gorgeous  scarlet  and  gold 
laced  dresses  resplendant  in  the  glare,  stood  watching  the 
progress  of  the  fire.  Towards  these  the  Corporal  conducted 
Catherine.  One  from  among  them  advanced,  laughing 
eoarsely,  as  he  exclaimed — "  Who  have  we  got  here,  Corpo- 
•al  ? — a  woman,  by  George !  and  a  young  and  pretty  one,  too, 
o  judge  by  the  pretty  figure.  You're  welcome,  madam. 
iVhat,  afraid  ?  Well,  I  suppose  you  have  formed  a  terrible 
•pinion  of  me  from  the  newspapers,  which  delight  to  repre- 
ient  us  all  as  devils.  Never  fear  me.  Satan  is  not  half  so 
black  as  the  saints  paint  him  !  You  shall  be  far  safer  under 
my  government;  than  under  Madison's.  Ross  says  he  makes 
no  war  upon  letters  or  ladies.  Ho,  ho,  ho !  Ross — Ae'« 

sentimental,  you  know !  Well !  d letters,  but  /  make 

no  war  upon  ladies  either,  except  with  Cupid's  weapons — ho, 
ho,  h),  ho,  ho!  What,  afraid  still.  Come!  let's  see  your 
face ;  never  saw  a  shy  woman  yet  that  had  not  a  face  worth 
seeing." 

Abashed  at  this  manner  of  address,  Catherine  hung  hei 
head,  until  the  Corporal  whispered — 

"  Rear  Admiral  Cockburn." 

Then  she  stole  a  glanco  at  the  speaker. 

£  flashy,  overdressed,  v*t  slovenly  perse  n,  a  florid  com- 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  433 

flexion,  a  clear,  mirthful,  audacious  blue  eye-  a  sensual 
mouth,  and  a  free,  dashing,  insolent  manner,  marked  tho 
licensed  Pirate  of  the  Chesapeake,  and  the  boon  companioc 
of  the  profligate  Prince  of  Wales. 

"  What,  shy  yet !  By  your  leave,  my  dear  !"  said  the 
Admiral,  chucking  his  hand  under  Catherine's  chin,  and 
raising  her  face.  Poor  Kate's  face,  as  well  as  her  hair  and 
her  dress,  was  stained  with  dust  and  tears  and  perspiration, 
and  her  features  were  pale  and  haggard  with  sorrow,  anxiety 
and  extreme  fatigue.  The  profligate  dropped  her  chin  with 
a  start,  as  if  it  had  burnt  him,  exclaiming — 

"  Whisht !  Ugh !  Brownies  and  kelpies,  and  witches  on 
broomsticks  !  Oh  !  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  Ugh,  !  what  a  facn  ! 
e,  Cor^er^al,  I  pass  her  over  to  you  :  you  seem  to  be  kindly 
disposed.  There  is  no  accounting  for  tastes,  so — Oh  !  ho, 
ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  ^1  make  you  a  present  of  her.  Oh-h  ! 
where  can  I  find  a  dozen  pretty  girls  to  get  the  cross  out  of 
my  eyes  ?" 

Mortified,  repulsed,  despairing,  Catherine  stood  by  her 
horse,  with  one  arm  thrown  around  his  neck,  and  her  head 
resting  upon  it. 

A  low  hum  of  voices  around  her,  seemingly  incident  upon 
some  one's  arrival  on  the  scene  of  action,  and  then  a  sweety 
deep-toned  voice  near  her,  inquiring — 

"  Can  we  be  so  happy  as  to  serve  you  in  any  way,  lady 
I  should  be  most  grateful  for  the  opportunity.     To  be  ablo 
to  render  any  service  is  always  a  most  soothing  amelioratiou 
to  me  of  the  harsh  duties  of  war." 

"  Major-G-eneral  Ross,"  whispered  the  friendly  Corporal, 
stooping  to  her  ear. 

Catherine  raised  her  head,  and  saw,  bending  towards  her, 
a  very  handsome  man,  in  the  early  prime  of  life,  of  a  grave, 
sweet,  thoughtful,  and  somewhat  melancholy  expression  of 
Countenance,  who  regarding  her  with  respectful  sympathy, 
repeated  his  offers  of  service,  saying — 

"  If  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  be  able  to  assist  you,  lady, 
pray  do  not  hesitate  a  moment  to  command  me." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you— I — wished  to  speak  with  tho 
Admiral— but— " 

"With  me  !  oh,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I 
oeg  to  decline  the  honor  !  Talk  to  Ross— he's  sentimental, 
«*</— responsible  !  the  father  of  a  family,  ect.-  «  a  married 


432  THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

man  myself,  with  several  sweet  children,  and  venerate  ths 
anctity,'*  ect.  Eh,  Ross?  Oh,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !'*' 

"  Speak  with  me,  lady.  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  aid  vou.. 
What  is  it  ?  Have  you  or  yours  suffered,  or  received  anj 
Injury  by  our  soldiers  that  I  can  redress?  Can  I  help  you 
in  any  way  ?"  asked  General  Ross,  in  gentle,  earnest  tones. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  think  you  may  have  power  to  do  me  a  vital 
service." 

"  Name  it,  lady.     My  word  is  pledged." 

"  His  word  is  pledged  !  Oh,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! — pledged 
to  a  scare-crow  ! — pledged  to  a  kelpie  ! — pledged  to  a  witch 
on  a  broomstick  !  Oh,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !  Oh-h  /"  shouted 
the  coarse  Admiral. 

The  eye  of  Ross  flashed  for  an  instant,  but  sheathed  its 
fire  as  he  turned  to  Catherine,  and,  taking  her  hand  respect 
fully,  drew  her  aside  from  the  proximity  of  the  brutal  Cock- 
burn,  who,  in  addition  to  his  other  graces,  was  now  doubly 
inflamed  by  drink  and  triumph. 

"  A  tryste  !  a  tryste  with  the  Queen  of  the  Kelpies  !  Oh, 
ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  !"  roared  the  Admiral,  holding  his  sides, 
and  bending  forward  to  shout  his  insulting  laughter,  and  then 
stalking  off'." 

"  Explain,  lady.  I  shall  be  proud  to  serve  you.  Pray 
have  confidence  in  me,  madam,  and  believe  in  the  sincerity 
of  my  words,"  said  General  Ross,  still  holding  her  hand, 
while  she  passed  her  other  one  slowly  to  and  fro  across  her 
forehead,  as  was  her  habit  when  embarrassed,  trying  *o  clear 
her  mind  and  arrange  her  thoughts. 

But  as  soon  as  she  was  relieved  from  the  presence  if  the 
coarse  and  insolent  Cockburn,  she  recovered  breath  and  self- 
possession,  and  spoke  clearly  and  to  the  point. 

"  I  thank  you,  sir, — I  deeply  thank  you.  I  will  tell  you. 
I  heard,  in  my  distant  mountain  home,  that  my  husband, 

Major  Clifton,  o^  the  Regiment  of  Volunteers,  had 

been  dangerously  wounded  in  the  action  at  St.  Leonard's.  I 
did  not  hear  that  he  had  also  been  taken  prisoner.  Believing 
him  to  be  still  in  the  American  camp,  and  fearing  that  he 
needed  more  constant  attention  than  he  could  get,  and  feel 
ing  very  anxious  to  hear. directly  from  him,  I  sent  his  favorite 
servant  to  find  him,  directing  the  man  to  remain  with  him, 

*  Words  u«ed  by  the  generous  and  unfortunate  General  Ross,  wfaii* 
•r  uig  to  »-\othe  ihe  fears  rf  Mrs  E— — — 


THE     NIGHT     JOURNEY.  43S 

and  tc  write  me  of  his  state.  He,  this  servant,  was  a  poor, 
rustic  negro,  sir,  totally  igr.orant  of  the  usages  of  war. 
When  he  reached  the  American  ?amp.  he  discovered  that  his 
master  was  a  prisoner  on  board  the  British  fleet.  He  pro 
cured  a  boat  and  boarded  the  Albion.  He  was  taken  as  a 
spy,  of  course,  and,  to  end  the  miserable  story,  awaits  only 
the  orders  of  Admiral  Cockburn  to  be  executed.  I  hcaid 
that  yesterday  evening,  and  I  instantly  set  off,  and  between 
that  hour  and  this  have  ridden  more  than  seventy  miles,  al- 
mos/tlvithaut  stopping  for  food  or  rest,  and  entered  the  city 
to-night  alonfeywhen  all  were  flying  from  it,  to  beg  this  man's 
life  from  the  Admiral.  Now,  you  know,  you  know,  how  vital 
is  my  request,  my  prayer." 

"  You  could  not  nave  done  more  for  your  father,  lady  !" 
replied  General  Ross,  with  a  gentle,  earnest  wonder  on  his 
fine  countenance.  "  You  could  not  have  done  more  for  your 
father  than  you  have  done  for  this  slave." 

"  Do  not  wonder,  sir.  He  would  have  laid  down  his  life 
for  us.  But,  oh,  sir  !  time  presses — death  threatens  '" 

"  Be  at  peace,  lady  !  The  life  or  death  of  this  slave,  of 
such  vital  importance  to  you,  is  really  a  matter  of  so  little 
moment  to  Admiral  Cockburn,  that  I  have  not  tho  slightest 
hesitation  in  promising  to  secure  for  you  his  pardon  and 
liberation." 

"  Oh,  may  the  Lord  forever  bless  you,  sir  !  I  never,  never 
can  tell  you  how  grateful  I  am — " 

"  Peace,  peace,  dear  lady.  It  is  absolutely  nothing.  I 
would  to  Heaven  I  could  really  do  anything  to  merit  your 
kind  word  and  kind  remembrance,  when  others  are  cursing 
me  for  what  the  stern  duties  of  war  force  me  to  do  !" 

"  I  shall  ever  remember  you,  sir,  with  the  deepest  grati 
tude." 

"  And  now,  Mrs.  Clifton,  you  must  have  rest  and  refresh 

meut.     My   head-quarters   are   at   Doctor  E 's.      His 

amiable  family  are  at  home.  Th0^  will  gladly  afford  you 
comfort  and  assistance.  Permit  me  to  conduct  you  thither." 

He  replaced  her  carefully  in  her  saddle,  and  taking  tho 
reins,  led  her  horse  until  they  reached  the  commodious  man 
sion  of  Doctor  E .  Here  he  introduced  Mrs.  Clifton, 

who  was  received  with  respect  and  sympathy.  Leaving  her 
in  the  care  of  the  kind  and  hospitable  familv,  he  then  set  out 
to  seek  Admiral  Cockburn. 

Catherine  was  shown  to  a  chamber,  and  afforded  the  re- 


THE      NIGHT      JOURNEY. 

I  }shments  of  a  partial  bath  and  food.  After  which  she  lay 
down  on  a  sofa,  to  rest,  and  await  the  return  of  the  gcntld 
and  generous  Ross. 

In  about  half  an  hour  she  was  summoned  to  the  parlor, 
where  she  found  him  standing.  He  advanced  to  meet  her, 
and  said — 

"  Mrs.  Clifton,  I  have  the  pardon  here,  but  I  very  much 
fear — "  and  his  face  clouded  over — "  I  very  much  fear  it  will 
Le  too  late." 

"  i  Too  late  /' "  echoed  Catherine,  sinking  into  a  chair,  as 
she  repeated  the  saddest  words  in  the  language — "  Too  late. 
Is  he  dead  ?"  she  asked,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands 

"  No.  Mrs.  Clifton,  but  he  has  been  ordered  for  execution 
at  eight  o'clock  to-morrow." 

"  IT  is  NOT  TOO  LATE!"  exclaimed  Catherine,  starting 
up,  with  electric  energy.  "  Give  me — oh !  give  me  the  par 
don  ! — I  will  take  it  there  in  time  !" 

"  Lady,  the  distance  is  over  forty  miles — and  the  necessary 
delays,  and  the  dangers  that  threaten  a  young  female,  travel 
ing  alone  by  night,  through  a  country  infested — " 

"  Oh !  give  me  the  pardon  !  give  it  me,  I  implore  you  ! 
I  will  take  it  there  safely,  and  in  time !  Heaven  has  pro 
tected  me  through  dangers  as  great,  and  Heaven  will  pro 
tect  me  through  these  !  Oh,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  do  not 
hesitate !  Every  moment  is  inestimable  when  a  '  too  late1 
threatens  us  !  Give  me  the  pardon  !" 

(<  Nay,  lady,  I  can  send  a  courier  with  the  pardon,  rather 
than  that  you  should  go,  for  many  reasons." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,  your  courier  would  want  to  stop,  to  cat  and 
drink — or  he  might  fall  in  with  some  of  our  people,  and  be 
killed  or  taken, — or  if  he  escaped,  through  his  explanation 
of  his  errand — why,  that  very  errand  would  be  rendered  fu 
tile,  by  the  time  lost  in  investigation.  /  shall  pause  for  no 
thing.  Heaven  will  protect  and  speed  me.  Oh  !  give  me 
the  pardon.  Do  not  delay  !  Jill  depends  upon  promptitude. 
Alas  !  excuse  my  importunity  !  but  give  me  the  pardon  !" 

General  Ross  attempted  to  dissuade  her ;  but  neither  ar 
guments  nor  persuasions?  had  the  least  effect  upon  her  resolu 
tion.  At  last,  overruled  by  her  earnestness,  vehemence  and 
faith,  he  yielded — handed  her  the  pardon,  and  went  out  to 
Bee  if  he  could  procure  her  a  fresh  horse. 

When  he  entered  again,  after  a  successful  search,  he  found 
her  equipped  foi  her  second  night's  journey,  and  standing  ic 


THE     NIQJIT     JOURNEY.  135 

flie  midst  of  her  astonished  hosts.  He  informed  her  that  her 
horse  was  ready,  and  also  that  he  had  provided  her  a  guard, 
to  escort  her  beyond  Bladensburg.  Then  she  took  a  hasty 
and  grateful  leave  of  her  amiable  entertainers,  and  accept 
ing  the  arm  of  the  Major-General,  left  the  house. 

As  General  Ross  placed  her  in  the  saddle,  and  handed  her 
the  reins,  he  said — 

"Heaven  protect  and  spegd  you,  lady.     Farewell — and 
sometime  remember  me." 

/  « I  will  remember  and  pray  for  General  Ross  while  I  live," 
eaid  Catherine.  And  then  she  put  whip  to  her  horse,  and 
rode  away,  upheld  oy  a  wonderful  energy. 


THE      GOAL. 


CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

THE  GOAL. 

Th">'  \vaves,  ihro'  storms  and  clourf? 

He  gently  clears  thy  way, 
Trust  thou  his  grace — s-o  shall  the  night 

Scon  end  in  joyous  day. — MORAVIAN. 

INCALCULABLE  is  the  power  of  the  spirit  ovtrf  the  flash. 
In  the  intense  absorption  of  her  soul  by  one  ho^e,  Catherine 
\vas  carried  above  all  consciousness  of  the  excesoi^e  exertion, 
and  aU  Sv.rse  of  the  extreme  fatigue  that  was  oppressing  and 
harassing  her  bodily  powers  almost  to  dissolution.  But  a 
watchful  Providence,  that  had  already  thrice  arrested  her 
dreadful  journey,  now  a  fourth  time  interposed  to  compel  her 
to  rest.  She  had  parted  with  her  escort,  when  past  the  Brit 
ish  outposts,  beyond  Bladensburg.  And  by  the  time  she 
had  reached  Long  Old  fields,  the  storm,  that  had  been 
threatening  all  the  evening,  burst  suddenly,  with  terrible 
violence,  driving  her  for  shelter  into  a  farm-house.  And 
again,  wondering  and  compassionate  hosts  persuaded  her  to 
lie  down  and  repose,  and  once  more,  as  soon  as  her  weary 
head  dropped  upon  the  pillow,  deep  sleep,  like  an  irresistible 
mandate  of  the  All  Merciful,  fell  upon  her,  and,  despite  of 
pain  of  body  and  anguish  of  mind,  she  slept  soundly  for 
several  hours  ; — slept,  as  the  prisoner  sleeps  the  night  before 
execution : — slept,  as  the  martyr  sleeps  in  the  intervals  of 
torture  upon  the  rack  ; — slept,  while  the  tempest  raged  with 
awful  fury ; — while  the  rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  the  wind 
rushed  through  the  forest,  carrying  destruction  on  its  wings ; 
while  gigantic  trees  were  twisted  off,  or  torn  up  by  the 
roots,  and  great  rivers  were  swelled  to  floods  ; — she  slept  the 
deep,  dreamless  sleep  "God  giveth  His  beloved."  Probably 
to  this  Providential  sleep  she  owed  the  preservation  of  her 
life,  for  the  spirit  that  can  goad  the  flesh  to  exertion  unto 
death,  cannot  save  it  from  dissolution. 


THE      GOAL.  437 

When  she  awoke,  the  storm  had  passed,  and  the  stars  \vero 
shining  dimly  in  the  early  dawn  of  day.  She  started  up,  re 
morseful  and  affrighted  to  find  she  had  slept  so  long,  and  to 
recollect  that  her  journey  was  not  half  over.  It  was  now 
four  o'clock,  and  she  had  yet  nearly  thirty  miles  to  ride  be 
fore  eight,  or  all  was  lost !  Her  pitying  hosts  tried  to  per 
ade  hereto  wait  and  partake  of  their  early  breakfast,  which, 
said,  would  be  ready  in  half  an  hour ;  but  finding  hex 
ent  upon  setting  forward,  they  hastily  got  some  refreshment 
together,  and  permitted  her  to  mount  her  horse  and  depart. 
But  she  had  not  proceeded  many  yards,  before  she  found  that 
the  motion  of  her  steed  gave  her  great  pam — pain  so  sharp, 
as  to  force  itself  to  be  felt  through  all  her  intense  mental 
abstraction.  She  checked  her  horse's  trot,  and  put  him  into 
a  gallop,  whose  smooth,  wavy  motion,  somewhat  relieved  her 
distress. 

The  morning  was  sparklingly  brilliant  after  the  storm  ;  the 
forest  trees  and  the  grass  were  spangled  by  the  rain-drops, 
and  the  slanting  rays  of  the  rising  run  striking  deep  into  tho 
foliage,  flecked  all  its  green  leaves  with  golden  light.  Hei 
horse  was  fresh,  his  blood  was  up,  and  on  they  sped  like  an 
arrow  through  the  woods. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  reeled  backwards — that  sharp 
pain  again ;  it  pierced  her  side  and  chest  like  a  sword  :  it 
caught  away  her  breath,  and  caused  the  drops  of  perspiration 
to  burst  from  her  pale  forehead.  But  not  for  pain,  or  even 
.br  the  fear  of  death,  must  she  pause.  She  might  perish,  but 
her  purpose  must  first  be  accomplished,  if  possible. 

Bracing  her  nerves,  and  steeling  her  soul  against  the  sen?e 
of  suffering,  she  put  whip  to  her  horse,  and  flew  on,  as  before 
the  wind,"leaving  forest,  meadow  and  hamlet — farm-house, 
field  and  flood,  far  behind  her.  Again  and  again  ^the  sharp 
agony  arrested  her,  like  the  hand  of  death — but  in  vain  to 
stop  her  progress — each  time  the  pang  could  only  delay  her  a 
moment,  and  then  on  and  on  she  sped,  spurning  the  ground 
away  in  her  desperate  flight. 

Before  her,  in  the  distance,  glimmered  the  blue  Patuxent. 
the  longed-for  goal.  Oh!  that  river;  for  an  hour  past  ic 
had  seemed  as  near  as  now.  Would  she  ever  approach  it  1 
On  and  on  she  sped,  while  woods  and  towns  and  plains  whirled 
behind  her  in  a  mad  reel.  A  fearful  change  was  coming  over 
her.  The  sense  of  pain,  with  all  other  sense,  had  gradually 
left  her.  A  stupor  of  weariness  supervened  j  her  brain 


438  THE      GOAL. 

reeled ,  her  sight  failed.  Oh !  that  river,  how  it  gleamed 
and  disappeared,  and  gleamed  again  before  her.  Would  she 
ever,  ever  be  nearer. to  it  ?  How  dim  the  sunlight  was,  and 
how  unsteady  the  ground ;  and  the  boundaries  of  the  sky  and 
earth  were  molten  together  and  lost ;  and  it  was  no  longer 
the  action  of  her  horse,  but  the  dreadful  rocking  and  up 
heaving  of  the  ground,  that  kept  her  moving,  moving,  moving, 
forever.  Oh  !  that  river !  how  it  glimmered  and  sparkled, 
and  sparkled  and  flashed  into  her  brain.  Would  she  ever, 
ever,  ever  reach  it,  or  was  she  going  round  in  a  circle  forever  ? 
Reason  was  failing  at  last — past,  present  and  future — things 
that  were,  and  things  that  seemed,  swam  thickly  together 
upon  brain  and  heart ;  surely  the  hour  of  dissolution  had 
come,  for  dense  darkness  and  heaviness  were  settling  like 
grave  clods  upon  brain  and  heart.  Oh  !  God,  that  river !  - 
had  she  really  reached  it  at  last,  or  was  it  an  illusion  of  de 
lirium  ?  Its  waves  rolled  and  flashed  in  silvery  splendor  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  below  her  feet !  But  what  was  that  ? 
Angels  in  Heaven  !  what  was  that  ?  A  sight  to  call  back 
ebbing  life  !  Down  in  the  dell,  the  glitter  of  bayonets  and 
the  glow  of  scarlet  coats — an  open  square  of  British  infantry, 
enclosing  an  execution  scene !  Clutching  the  pardon  from 
her  bosom,  and  holding  it  aloft  at  arm's  length,  she  roused 
her  fast  failing  strength  for  a  last  effort,  and  hurled  herself 
and  steed  furiously  down  the  hill  upon  the  scene  of  doom. 
The  flash  of  steel  around  her — the  gallows  tree — the  cart— 
the  prisoner — the  fatal  noose — and  more  than  all,  clobe  be 
side  her,  the  form  of  him — her  own — her  Clifton — madly 
loved  in  life  and  death,  and  then — darkness  closed  in  upon 
her  life,  and  all  was  lost. 

As  the  reins  feil  from  powerless  hands  upon  the  horse's 
neck,  the  noble  animal  stood  stock  still ;  had  he  lifted  a  leg, 
it  must  have  been  fatal  to  the  swooning  rider ;  but  he  stood 
like  a  statue,  while  her  form  swayed  to  and  fro  for  a  moment, 
and  then  Archer  Clifton  sprang  forward  and  received  her  in 
his  arms.  He  picked  up  the  paper  as  it  fell  from  her  stiffen 
ing  fingers,  and  guessing  its  purport,  passed  it  to  the  officer 
in  command.  T"hen  he  sank  upon  one  knee,  drew  her  insen 
sible  form  to  and  supported  it  against  his  breast,  while  he 
untied  her  hat  and  loosened  her  spencer. 

A  little  bustle  ensued  around  him ;  but  he  did  not  heed  it. 
bending  over  Catherine.     The  execution  was  stayed,  the  pri- 
released  and  poor  Jack,  half-dead  with  terror  before. 


THE      GOAL.  439 

and  half  mad  with  joy  now,  had  still  strength  and  sense  and 
affection  enough  left  to  run  to  a  spring  hard  by,  and  dip  up 
his  hat  full  of  water,  and  the  next  instant  he  was  kneeling 
with  it  by  tlie  side  of  his  mistress,  to  bathe  her  hands. 

«  WhoSs  she  ?"'  "  Where  did  she  come  from  ?"  «  What 
v^sjW  name  ?*V"  Who  is  the  lady  ?"  "  Do  you  know  her, 
siF?"  asked  some\pf  the  officers,  crowding  around  with  offers 
of  assistance. 

"  This  lady  is  my  wife,  gentlemen  !  Air !  air,  if  you 
please!"  exclaimed  Archer  Clifton,  waving  them  off,  and 
giving  his  sole  attention  to  Catherine.  "Kate !" 

The  sound  of  that  thrilling  voice — the  clasp  of  those  thril 
ling  arms,  had  power  to  call  back  her  spirit  from  the  confines 
of  the  invisible  world.  Her  pale,  pale  eyelids  quivered. 

"  Kate  !"  he  exclaimed  again,  raising  her  higher  upon  his 
breast. 

A  shuddering  sigh  convulsed  her  bosom — her  languid  eyes 
unclosed. 

"Kate!" 

"  Yes,  Kate !"  she  echoed,  nodding  her  head  with  that 
quick,  nervous,  spasmodic  gesture  common  to  her. 

"  And  why  have  you  done  this  thing  ?  Why  have  you 
placed  yourself  en  scene  like  a  third-rate  opera  dancer  ?" 

She  raised  her  fading  eyes  to  his  face,  pleadingly,  mur 
muring — 

"  Your  wishes — the  reprieve  !" 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  Was  there  no  one  to  bring  it 
but  yourself?" 

Too  feeble  to  enter  upon  the  long  explanation  required, 
she  only  shook  her  head,  murmuring  at  intervals — 

"  Forgive — forgive — I  could  not  see  him  die.  Patience, 
patience — indeed,  I  will  not  trouble  you,  love, — I  will  go 
away  again,  far  away!  Maybe  God  will  let  me  die !" 

The  last  words  were  breathed  forth  in  a  long,  deep  sigh, 
and  she  sank  away  again  into  insensibility. 

Poor  Jack,  kneeling  by  her  side,  bathed  her  hand  with  the 
water  he  had  brought,  and  with  his  tears  that  fell  like  rain. 

Major  Clifton  laid  her  head  down  upon  the  green  sward, 
4nd  rising  to  his  feet,  addressed  the  officer  in  command, 
saying — 

"  Sir,  I  am  a  prisoner  of  war,  as  you  know.  Yet,  my  wife 
(s  in  a  dying  state  here,  and  I  wish  to  convey  her  to  a  place 
of  safety  an^  repose." 


440  THE      GOAL. 

"  Major  Clifton  will  consider  himself  on  his  parole,  and 
command  any  assistance  we  may  be  able  to  render  him  or  his 
heroic  wife,"  said  Captain  —  — ,  at  the  same  time  showing 
him  a  note  from  General  Ross  to  that  effect,  which  had  been 
folded  in  with  the  pardon. 

"  I  think,  sir,"  added  the  officer,  "  that  there  is  a  farm 
house  near  here,  belonging  to  a  planter  of  the  name  of 
Greenfield,  where  your  lady  would  be  hospitably  received, 
and  well  taken  care  of;  perhaps  you  had  better  send  your 
servant  thither  to  borrow  a  carriage." 

Thanking  the  officer  for  his  civility  and  good  advice,  Major 
Clifton  immediately  acted  upon  it  by  dispatching  Jack  to  the 
house,  while  he  himself  supported  Catherine  until  the  arrival 
of  the  carriage.  He  then  placed  her  in  it,  and  she  was 
driven  slowly  to  "  Greenwood."  Here  she  was  kindly  re 
ceived  by  the  planter's  wife  and  sisters,  who  tenderly  un' 
dressed  her  and  put  her  to  bed.  A  physician  was  summoned, 
who,  when  he  arrived  and  looked  at  her  and  felt  her  pulse, 
and  heard  the  circumstances,  pronounced  her  insensibility  to 
be  not  a  swoon,  but  a  trance-coma — the  result  of  excessiv? 
fatigue  of  mind  and  body.  He  said  that  such  stupors,  if 
prematurely  broken,  might  end  in  convulsions  and  mad- 
Less — or  if  left,  too,  to  themselves,  might  terminate  m 
death  ;  that  her  state  was  exceedingly  critical,  and  that  he? 
rest  was  by  no  means  to  be  broken,  unless  there  was  a  per 
ceptible  failure  in  her  pulse,  in  which  case  the  stimulants 
and  restorative  he  should  leave  must  be  applied  and  admin 
istered,  and  himself  instantly  summoned.  And  so  he  left 
her. 

Having  seen  Catherine  thus  at  rest,  and  having  received 
many  assurances  from  her  gentle-hearted  hostess  that  every 
care  and  attention  should  be  given  her,  Major  Clifton  took 
leave,  and  returned  to  render  himself  up  to  his  captors,  who 
were  just  about  to  return  to  their  ship.  He  went  with  them. 
And  when  they  had  arrived  on  board  the  Albion,  an  agree 
able  surprise  awaited  him.  A  gentleman  in  the  uniform  of 
an  American  general  stood  upon  the  deck,  attended  by  a  flag 
of  truce,  and  Major  Clifton  immediately  recognized  Colonel 
(now  General)  Conyers,  who  instantly  advanced  to  meet  him, 
and  shaking  hands  heartily,  exclaimed — 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  find  me  here  ?  I  have  come 
concerning  the  arrangement  of  a  change  of  prisoners.  Co 
ionel  Lithgow  of  hi"  Britannic  Majesty's Regiirenl 


THE     GOAL.  4H 

and  taken  prisoner  by  our  people  in  the  same  engagement  in 
which  you  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  is  now  offered  in 
exchangejor  yourself." 

"  Y#s,  sir^^aid  Captain  —  ,  advancing  towards  thorn, 

am  exceedingly  happy  to  say  that  an  exchange  has 
been  effected,  and  to  congratulate  you  on  your  restoration  to 
iberty." 

Major  Clifton  bowed  deeply,  and  requested  the  use  of  a 
boat  to  leave  the  ship. 

«  Nay — yourself  and  General  Conyers  will  stay  and  dine 
witfi  us  ?•"  asked" Captain . 

But  Major  Clifton,  thanking  him  for  his  invitation,  and 
also  for  much  kindness  and  attention  received  during  his  so- 
iourn  as  a  captive  among  them,  declined  remaining  longer, 
find  repeated  his  request  for  a  boat. 

"  Oh,  mine,  is  here  at  your  service.  /  am  going  ashore 
w\th  you  of  course,"  said  General  Conyers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir !  the  boat  you  came  in  has  been 
t«ken  by  Captain  Fairfax,  who  has  gone  ashore  with  it." 

"Ah,  true!" 

«  Captain  Fairfax  ?"  asked  Archer  Clifton. 

"  Yes,  my  friend,  Captain  Fairfax.  Frank  accompanied 
tno  hither  in  search  of  yourself.  Some  news  of  vital  import 
ance  he  had  to  communicate,  which  he  did  not  impart  to  me 
He  could  not  wait  for  your  return  at  all,  so  he  went  ashoro 
in  search  of  you.  He  would  have  found  you  sooner  if  he 
bnd  waited  here,  which  proves  the  truth  of  the  old  proverb — 
<  Most  haste,  least  speed.' " 

"The  boat  is  manned,  sir,"  said  a  lieutenant  to  Major 
Clifton. 

General  Conyers  and  himself  then  took  leave  of  the  Brit 
ish  officers,  entered  the  boat,  and  were  re  wed  swiftly  to  the 
land.  As  soon  as  they  had  stepped  upon  the  beach,  and 
found  themselves  alone,  Conyers  grasped  the  hand  01  Clifton, 
and  shaking  it  cordially,  said — 

«  So,  you  have  won  noble  Catherine  ?  Well,  I  congratu 
late  you  "with  a  whole  heart,  though  you  have  won  her  trom 
my  hopes." 

"  Won  her  from  your  hope3?-" 
"  Ay,  Archer,  I  loved  her." 
'*  Loved  her  ?" 
<Yes,  and  love  VQ.r!" 
*  1-ove  her l" 


442  THE      GOAL. 

"  Yes,  and  shall  always  love  her,  highly  and  purely  though, 
as  a  saint  loves  an  angel." 

"  You  astonish  me  !" 

"  And  I  shall  astonish  you  more,  perhaps.  Three  several 
times  in  one  year  I  wooed  her,  and  three  several  times  waa 
my  suit  rejected  by  her." 

"  I  say  you  astound  me  !    Your  suit  rejected  by  Catherine 
Yours?     Can  this  be  possible  *" 

"  Possible  as  that  I  was  nearly  driven  to  despair  by  her 
rejection." 

Major  Clifton  threw  his  hand  to  his  brow  and  gazed  at  tho 
speaker  in  amazement,  while  he  compared  the  claims  of  Gene 
ral  Conyers  with  his  own.  General  Conyers,  with  his  haughty 
and  powerful  connection  in  town  and  country  j  his  immense 
unincumbered  estates  ;  his  high  military  rank  ;  and  last,  noL 
least,  his  eminently  handsome  person,  accomplished  mind, 
and  graceful  address; — General  Conyers,  in  every  social, 
official,  and  personal  dignity,  highly  superior.  And  himself, 
with  his  limited  circle ;  his  debt-encumbered  property ;  his 
medium  post  in  the  army ;  and  his  very  moderate  share  of 
personal  attraction,  and  he  exclaimed  again — 

"  Catherine  reject  you  ?" 

"  Three  distinct  times,  most  firmly." 

"  Why,  upon  what  possible  pretext  could  she  have  done 
so?" 

"  Ay,  sure  enough !  Upon  what  possible  pretext  ?" 
smiled  General  Conyers,  ruefully.  "  Upon  the  plea  that  she 
did  not  love  me,  save  only  <  as  a  sister  or  a  spirit  might.'  1 
won  her  respect,  esteem,  friendship,  all  but  her  love !  She 
was  a  frank,  high-minded,  pure  hearted  girl.  She  gave  me 
the  greatest  proof  of  confidence  she  could  possibly  give,  and 
at  the  same  instant  struck  the  only  death-blow  to  dangerous 
hopes  that  she  could  possibly  strike,  she  told  me  that  she 
could  never  be  more  than  a  faithful  friend  to  me,  for  that  she 
loved  another." 

Major  Clifton  started,  and  grasped  the  arm  of  his  com 
panion,  but  instantly  recovering  his  self-control,  he  inquired, 
in  a  calm  voice — 

"  And  who  did  she  say  was  that  other  ?" 

"  Nay,  she  never  breathed  his  name.  She  could  not  havo 
done  that.  She  was  trying  to  do  me  good  when  she  informed 
me.  I  remember  well  her  sweet  and  holy  looks  and  words 
A.t  fir«t  she  flushed  and  paled,  hesitating  between  generous 


THE     GOAL.  443 

(  impulse-ami  womanly  reserve  ;  and  then  as  principle  rose 
\  above  instinct,  Jier  face  glowed  with  an  expression  such  as  I 
frave  seen  in  the" pictures  of  St.  Agnes  ; — a  warm,  high,  holy 
look,  an  inspired  look,  such  as  might  well  become  the  coun 
tenance  of  tlie  Virgin  Martyr,  and  she  said,  speaking  to  her 
self,  l  There  is  no  good  reason  why  I  should  not  reveal  any 
secret  of  my  heart,  if  the  revelation  can  help  any  other  soul 
to  tranquillity  and  strength.'  Then  to  me — *  Listen  :  You 
are  not  the  only  sorely  disappointed  one.  Who,  indeed,  is 
joyous  that  is  past  childhood  ?  I,  too,  have  missed  life's 
crowning  joy — the  love  of  one  I  love.  But  what  then  ?  If 
we  cannot  have  joy  in  this  life  of  probation,  there  yet  re 
mains  duty,  and  the  peace  its  performance  yields  ;  and  friends, 
and  the  cheerfulness  their  society  gives ;  and  God,  and  the 
divine  comfort  His  service  brings.' ': 

"  She  said  that  ?     She  said  that  ?"  groaned  Clifton. 

"  Yes.     You  seem  strongly  moved,  Archer  ?" 

"  I  am !  I  am  !  You  do  not  know  with  how  much  reason ! 
But  go  on !  Tell  me  more  of  her." 

"  She  never  breathed  the  name  of  him  she  loved  to  my 
ear,  yet  I  knew  her  whole  secret.  I  had  suspected  it  months 
before.  Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?" 

"Yes!     Goon!" 

"  It  was  at  the  Governor's  levee,  where  I  was  first  intro 
duced  to  her,  and  where  you  met  after  a  long  absence ;  I  was 
present  at  the  casual  meeting.  I  beheld  the  strong  emotion 
that  she  could  not  conceal.  Some  hours  after  that  I  was 
near  her,  when  unobserved  by  all  except  myself,  and  uncon 
scious  of  my  presence  also,  she  chanced  to  witness  the 
reconciliation  between  yourself  and  your  chosen  bride.  I 
saw  her  face  grow  paler  than  death,  and  then  the  meek  head 
bow  in  submission,  and  the  meek  hands  fold  as  in  prayer, 
and  the  meek  voice  murmur  low  and  fervently,  *  Thank  God ! 
Oh!  God  help  me  to  say  that  sincerely.'  I  had  been  in 
terested  in  her  before  ;  but  I  saw  that,  and  I  loved  her  from 
that  hour,  the  sweet,  the  lovely,  the  Madonna-like  maiden ' 
I  loved  her  with  an  affection  a's  free  from  passion  as  it  was 
fiom  selfishness,  and  as  free  from  both  as  her  own  pure, 
saintly  nature.  And  I  offered  her  my  heart  and  hand,  as  I  said. 
And  she  sweetly  and  gratefully  declined  them,  as  1  might 
have  known  before  ; — unveiling  the  sanctuary  of  her  price 
less  heart,  to  quiet  me  forever  with  the  revelation  of  anothei 
master  there  " 


U4  THE      GOAL. 

«  Oh,  God  !     Oh,  God  !"  said  Clifton. 

"  What  disturbs  you  so,  Archer  *'* 

"  Never  mind  .  Never  mind  !  And  so,  rejecting  you  as 
a  lover,  she  won  you  as  a  friend  ?" 

"  For  life  and  death  and  eternity.     Yes." 

"  That  was  a  triumph !  Rejected  lovers  seldom  become 
friends!  That  was  a  rare  triumph !  But  then  Catherine  is 
a  rare  woman." 

"  Very  rare!" 

"  Truly  nick-named  c  Maria  Theresa.'  " 

"Catherine!  *  Maria  Theresa?'  By  whom?  By  soma 
one,  I  suppose,  who,  recognizing  her  strong,  practical  mind, 
sees  nothing  better  in  her  nature — sees  not  the  pure  heart 
and  the  lofty  spirit  of  infinitely  higher  value  than  that." 

<*  Heaven  bless  you,  Conyers,  for  your  good  opinion  of 
Catherine.  But  I  wish  to  put  a  case  to  you,  only  an  imagi 
nary  case,  you  observe,  Conyers  ?" 

«  Yes  !     Well  ?" 

"  Suppose  you  had  married  Catherine  ?" 

"  That  is  very  imaginary !     Well  ?" 

"  And  suppose  that  you  had  discovered  her  to  be  unwor 
thy  of  your  good  opinion  ?" 

"  Impossible  !  It  could  not  Ijave  happened,  because  she 
could  not  have  been  unworthy."' 

"  But  suppose  that  her  unworthiness  had  been  made  mani 
fest  to  you  beyond  all  chance  of  mistake  or  doubt  ?" 

"  D — n  it !  Don't  let  me  be  profane.  It  couldn't  have 
been  made  manifest  to  me,  I  tell  you  !  Could  any  person  or 
anything  demonstrate  to  me  that  the  sun  darkened  the  earth, 
or  the  clouds  dropped  powdered  charcoal,  or  that  fig  trees 
bore  thorns  ?  There  are  some  things  that  can't  be  proved, 
because  they  can't  exist !" 

Major  Clifton  thrust  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  and  drew 
thence  a  letter  in  a  gray  envelope,  and  handing  it  to  General 
Conyers,  asked — 

"  Bo  you  know  that  hand-writing  ?" 

«  Certainly,  I  do." 

"Whose  is  it?" 

"  Mrs.  Catherine  Clifton's." 

u  Are  you  sure  ?" 

"  Pooh  !  Of  course  I  am !  I  am  familiar  with  the  wri 
ting:" 

*  Could  you  swear  to  it  ?" 


THE     GOAL.  44* 

"  Yon  arc  very  emphatic  in  this  matter !  Let  mo  see  th<s 
letter  again.  Yes,  I  could  swear  to  it." 

"  And  now  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  read  it  ?" 

General  Conyers,  with  some  hesitation,  began  to  read,  but 
^ before  getting  half  through,  the  blood  rushed  to  his  brow, 
and  crushing  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  hurled  it  beneath  hit 
feet,  and  setting  his  heel  upon  it,  ground  it  into  the  earth. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  now  ?"  asked  Clifton,  bitterly. 

"  Think  of  it ! — it  is  an  infernal  forgery  !  If  any  man  had 
brought  me  that  letter,  and  said  that  Catherine  wrote  it 
I  should  have  treated  it  just  as  I  have  done  now,  to  show  mv 
contempt  for  the  forgery ;  and  then  I  should  have  raised  it 
with  my  sword's  point,  and  thrust  it  down  his  throat,  to  ex 
press  my  loathing  of  the  forger  or  the  accomplice." 

"  And  yet,  just  now  you  could  have  &worn  to  the  hand 
writing." 

"  Death !  Yes  !  And  for  which  presumption  I  earnestly 
beg  your  pardon,  Clifton  !" 

"  And  now  you  are  quite  as  much  convinced  that  she  di«* 
not  write  it.  How  can  you  explain  this  ?" 

"  Why,  simply  thus — that  the  whole  of  Catherine's  nobl« 
life  is  a  refutation  of  the  slander  contained  in  that  letter.  Sir ' 
it  is  a  d — d  forgery !  Look  at  it !  See  how  easy  the  hand 
is  imitated  !  Give  me  a  pen  and  ink,  and  though  I  have  no* 
much  talent  for  imitation,  I  will  produce  you  a  fac  simile  of 
Catherine's  hand-writing.  I  repeat,  I  beg  your  forgiveness 
for  saying  that  that  was  Catherine's.  I  said  so,  because  it 
strongly  resembled  hers,  and  I  did  not  know  the  vile  pur 
port  !  Oh,  I  trust,  Clifton,  that  you  signally  punished  the 
conspirator  who  wrote  it !  I  can  well  believe  that  you  nei 
ther  eat,  slept,  said  your  prayers,  went  to  church  or  into  her 
presence,  until  you  had  pursued  the  forger,  and  punished  him 
or  her  to  the  utmost  extent  of  the  law !" 

They  had  now  arrived  at  Greenwood,  and  Major  Clifton, 
without  replying,  conducted  his  companion  into  the  house, 
and  introduced  him  to  the  planter's  family.  On  inquiry  con 
cerning  the  state  of  Catherine,  he  learned  that  she  still  lay 
without  any  sign  of  life,  except  the  faint  beating  of  hei'  heart. 
Leaving  General  Conyers  with  his  host,  he  went  up  into  his 
wife's  chamber.  He  wished  to  be  alone  with  her.  There  is 
something  in  a  sound  faith  that  always  makes  a  strong  im 
pression.  The  deep,  thorough  earnestness  of  confidence  in 
Catharine's  perfect  integrity,  exhibited  by  Convert,  Lau 


446  THE      GOAL. 

shaken  Clifton's  firm  convictions  of  her  guilt  to  their  uproot 
ings,  as  the  whirlwind  shakes  the  oak.  Ay,  and  he  wal 
shaken — literally  shaken,  terribly  shaken,  by  strong  passion, 
as  he  exclaimed  to  himself — 

"  Oh,  would  to  Heaven  I  could  think  as  he  does !  I  am 
no  longer  a  youth,  credulous  of  happiness,  but  if  I  could  only 
thoroughly  believe  in  Kate  as  he  does — or  once  see  her  inno 
cence  proved,  it  would  fill  my  heart  with  joy."  He  entered 
the  chamber,  and  went  up  to  her  bedside.  There  was  a  pallor 
spread  liks  death  over  her  brow.  "But  she  was  always  so 
pale,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  tremulous  with  tenderness.  So 
still  she  lay,  so  profound  wras  her  repose,  that  her  breathing 
could  not  be  seen  or  heard,  until,  alarmed,  he  stooped  and 
listened,  and  perceived  that  her  respiration  was  deep,  soft, 
slow  and  regular.  Her  sleep  was  evidently  necessary,  health 
ful  and  recuperative.  He  stood  and  gazed  at  her  sculptured, 
marble-like  face,  as  her  head  reposed  upon  the  pillow.  He 
had  never  seen  that  noble  countenance  in  the  deep  repose  of 
sleep  before.  No,  and  waking,  it  had  always  been  disturbed 
by  care,  or  grief,  or  anxiety,  or  bashfulness.  Now  the  noble 
face  was  in  perfect  rest.  The  majesty  of  truth  sat  enthroned 
upon  the  fine,  broad,  open  forehead,  with  its  eyebrows  arched 
far  apart,  and  more  elevated,  because  the  eyelids  were  shut 
down,  with  their  dark  lashes  lying  long  and  still  upon  tLo 
pale  cheeks.  And  the  beauty  of  goodness  lay  folded  in  eve*/ 
curve  of  the  lightly-closed  and  perfect  lips.  She  looked  A 
queen  in  repose — 

"A  Queen  of  noble  Nature's  crowning," 

whrm  it  were  disloyalty  to  suspect,  and  treason  to  accuse. 
As  Ve  gazed,  the  earnest  faith  of  Conyers  came  back  wkh 
tnnfMd  power  to  his  soul.  He  more  than  half  abjured  his 
evil  convictions,  and  a  flood  of  tenderness  came  over  his 
fcoart.  There  was  no  one  to  see  his  weakness — not  even 
far — the  sleeper.  He  went  and  closed  the  door,  and  re 
turned  and  kneeled  by  her  side.  He  took  her  hand,  and 
bowed  his  head  over  it.  From  that  trance-sleep  there  was 
no  fear,  because  there  was  no  possibility  of  waking  her  yet 
He  kissed  and  pressed  that  hand  with  sorrowful  passion — 
murmuring — "  For  once — for  this  time,  I  will,  /  will  believe 
you  true,  my  own  clear  Catherine.  My  whole  nature  starves 
it  starves,  and  withers,  and  dies  for  a  perfect  reconcilia 
tion,  a  perfect  union  with  you*  Oh,  for  once,  let  soul  and 


THE     GOAL.  441 

heat  t  be  satisfied — let  me  steel  my  mind  against  tr  3  thought 
of  evil,  and  fold  you  around  with  my  love,  and  press  you  to 
this  still  denied  and  hungering,  perishing  heart."  Arid  ha 
raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  folded  her  to  his  bosom,  pressing 
an  ardent  kiss  upon  her  lips.  That  passionate  kiss  sent  an 
electric  shock  through  all  her  still  life.  A  shuddering  sigh 
shook  her  bosom ;  her  lips  parted  in  a  light,  rosy  smile ; 
color  dawned  upon  her  cheeks,  and  light  beamed  on  her 
brow.  Alarmed,  and  remembering  the  physician's  warning 
that  a  premature  awakening  might  be  fatal,  he  cautiously 
laid  her  down  again,  and  anxiously  watched  her  countenance. 
She  did  not  awake  ;  nor  did  the  light  depart  from  her  brow ; 
nor  the  color  from  her  cheeks ;  nor  the  smile  from  her  lips 
"  How  she  loves  me.  Her  soul  as  well  as  her  person  is  mine 
How  she  loves  me,  even  in  sleep — even  in  this  trance-sleep, 
with  all  her  senses  locked.  How  she  loves  me — my  Kate  ! 
my  own  !  my  wife !  How  she  loves  me — yet  no  more  than 
I  love  her.  Witness  this  worn  frame  of  mine,  that  sorrow, 
like  years,  has  aged !  My  own — " 

A  light  step  upon  the  stairs,  and  a  rap  at  the  door,  and 
he  hastened  to  open  it.  It  was  the  farmer's  little  niece, 
Susannah,  who  came  to  say  that  Captain  Fairfax  was  in  the 
parlor,  waiting  to  see  Major  Clifton.  He  turned  back  an 
instant,  to  arrange  the  coverlet,  gave  a  last  glance  at  the 
beloved  face,  and  then  followed  the  child  down  stairs.  The 
staircase  led  directly  down  into  the  parlor,  and  as  soon  as  he 
had  reached  it,  he  saw  Frank  Fairfax,  who  immediately 
hastened  to  meet  him,  and — 

"My  dear  Frank!" 

"My  dearest  Clfc\ra!" 

"Were  the  words  of  affectionate  greeting  interchanged,  u 
they  shook  hands. 

"  Well,  and  so  you  have  been  married  these  two  years 
nearly,  and  I  have  never  had  the  opportunity  of  congratu 
lating  you  till  now !  Well,  better  late  than  never,  though  it 
is  always  a  mere  form  to  wish  a  man  joy  who  has  an  excess  of 
\t  already  !  But,  indeed,  you  have  the  jewel  of  the  world  ! 
/f  you  had  only  waited  two  years  longer,  until  I  had  some 
what  recovered  the  despair  of  my  own  awful  bereavement,  I 
should  have  tried  to  dispute  the  prize  with  you — not  that  1 
was  in  love  with  noble  -Catherine— I  never  was  but  once  in 
love,  and  I  never  shall  be  again— but  that  I  think  her  just 
Uie  most  precioui  woman  ID  the  world.  Nor  ain  I  alone  in 


448  THE      GOAL. 

that  opinion.  I  have  been  in  her  neighborhood,  looking  foi 
her,  before  I  came  down  here  to  find  you,  and  there  I  found 
that  she  was  deeply  venerated  by  her  people,  and  honored, 
sincerely  honored,  by  all  the  proud,  county  aristocrats.  And 
General  Ross,  the  gallant  General  Ross,  '  second  only  to 

Wellington  himself '  we  had  to  see  Admiral  Cockburn 

about  this  exchange  of  prisoners,  and  met  General  Ross  in 
his  company — I  wish  you  had  heard  the  brave  and  generous 
Ross  speak  of  your  wife.  As  soon  as  he  knew  what  we  had 
come  for,  and  recognized  your  name  and  hers,  he  took  Ad 
miral  Cockburn  aside,  and  talked  with  him  in  the  most  em 
phatic  manner,  seeming  to  insist  upon  something — (and  be  it 
known  that  General  Ross  exercises  a  considerable  influence 
over  Cockburn,  and  has  even  restrained  him  from  greater 
excesses  in  Washington  than  were  committed  there,  obliging 
him  to  spare  private  dwellings,  etc.) — and  then  they  came 
back  to  where  we  stood,  and  the  arrangement  was  effected. 
And  to  General  Ross's  admiration  of  Catherine's  character, 
and  to  his  generosity,  I  attribute  the  ease  with  which  the 
business  was  completed.  'Sir,?  he  said,  at  parting,  ( had 
your  army  at  Bladensburg  been  composed  of  men  with  spirits 
equal  to  that  of  this  heroic  woman,  your  city  of  Washington 
had  not  been  taken.'  But,  where  is  noble  Catherine,  now  ?" 

"  In  a  deep  sleep,  or  rather  a  trance-sleep,  superinduced 
by  the  excessive  toil  and  fatigue  she  has  lately  gone 
through — " 

"  '  Like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest."  ' 

61  No — I  wish  you  would  not  apply  that  line,  great  as  it  is, 
to  her.  She  is  not  heroic,  which  is  masculine — my  Kate — 
she  is  strong  only  through  her  affections,  and  a  very  child  in 
timidity  at  other  times.  But,  my  dear  Frank,  glad  as  I  am 
to  see  you,  I  wish  to  know — you  have  not  told  me  the  '  busi 
ness  of  vital  importance,'  which  Conyers  says,  made  you  his 
companion  in  seeking  me." 

The  face  of  Captain  Fairfax  suddenly  clouded  over ;  he 
put  his  hand  in  his  bosom,  and  then  hesitating,  said — 

"  You  have  seen  in  the  papers  the  obituary  notice  of  a  deaf 
friend  ?" 

"  No  !  Who  is  it  ?  I  have  no  very  dear  friend,  out  of 
this  house,  now — whom  do  you  mean  '?" 

"  Mrs.  Georgia  Clifton  is  no  more." 

Major  Clifton  started  back,  and  gazed  at  the  speaker  with 
%n  expression  of  deep  concern,  exclaiming — 


THE     GOAL  440 

"  No  !  Impossible  !  How  could  that  be  ?  A  woman  in 
such  fine  health  !" 

"  Death  is  always  possible ;  at  all  times,  and  to  all  per 
sons." 

"  When,  and  where,  and  under  what  circumstances,  did 
she  die  ?  I  am  very  sorry." 

"  She  died  a  week  since,  at  her  house,  in  Richmond." 

"  I  am  very  sorry.     The  cause  of  her  death  ?" 

"  One  of  those  virulent  summer  fevers  prevalent  in  the  city 
just  at  this  season.  Her  physicians  think  that  hers  was  fa 
tally  aggravated  by  the  life  of  excitement  she  had  led,  and  by 
the  friction  of  something  that  preyed  upon  her  mind." 

Frank  paused,  and  Major  Clifton  kept  his  eyes  fixed  with 
interest  upon  his  countenance.  Frank  sighed,  and  resumed — 

"  A  few  days  before  her  death,  she  sent  for  me.  I  went, 
and  found  her  laboring  under  great  mental  distress.  She 
seemed  half  disposed  to  make  me  a  confidant ;  but  after  much 
painful  hesitation,  she  reserved  her  secret,  whatever  it  may 
have  been,  and  drew  from  beneath  her  pillow  this  letter, 
which  she  gave  me — exacting  an  oath,  that  after  her  death,  and 
not  before — I  would  hand  it  to  you  with  the  seal  unbroken. 
She  said  that  the  whole  future  happiness  of  yourself  and  your 
wife,  was  concerned  in  your  receiving  it.  And  then,  with 
many  sighs  and  groans — for  her  eyes  seemed  too  dry  for 
tears — she  let  me  depart.  I  never  saw  her  again.  A  few 
days  after  that,  I  heard  she  was  dead." 

"The  letter?" 

"  Here  it  is.     You  seem  very  much  agitated,  Clifton  !" 

"  With  reason  !     Give  it  me  !" 

And  receiving  the  letter,  Major  Clifton  hastened  to  tha 
opposite  end  of  the  room  and  began  to  read  it.  It  was  the 
confession  of  a  guilty  and  dying  woman.  She  wrote,  that  on 
the  borders  of  eternity  there  was  no  false  seeming,  and  no 
false  shame — that  all  human  feelings  were  lost  in  remorse,  in 
terror,  and  in  awe.  Then  she  confessed  her  mad  and  guilty 
passion  for  himself,  and  all  the  crimes  into  which  it  had 
tempted  her ;  the  slanders  that  had  separated  him  and  his 
cousin  Carolyn — the  forged  letter  that  had  brought  such 
bitter  sorrow  to  himself  and  Catherine.  All  was  confessed 
\  and  deplored.  Finally  she  supplicated  his  forgiveness,  as  he 
\  hoped  to  be  forgiven  of  God. 

The  subtle  self-love  of  a  man  can  pardon  much  in  a  woman 


,  whose  motive  of  action  is  a  strong  passion  for  himself.    Groat 


150  THE      GOAL. 

us  aer  wickedness  had  been — great  as  the  suffering  it  had 
caused  him,  he  bore  no  malice  to  the  dead  Georgia.     He  even 
after  a  time  resolved  to  cover  her  sin  from  all  eyes- -to  bury 
it  m  the  grave  with  her.     But  merciful  as  he  was  in  judging 
Georgia — he  was  stern  enough  in  condemning  himself  for  so 
readily  believing  his  innocent  wife  to  be  guilty.     And  he  di 
vined  his  broken  exclamations  between  severe  self-upbraid- 
in/rs,  and  rejoicings  at  her  full  acquittal — Frank  watching  hint 
wir,h  curiosity  and  strong  interest 
6  Oh  !  fool !  fool !  fool !" 
•«  What  is  it,  Clifton  ?     Who's  a  fool  ?" 
*  Oh  !  fool !  thrice  sodden  fool  that  I've  been !     Than* 
B  naven.     Oh  !  thank  Heaven  !" 

<  Thank  Heaven  that  he's  a  thrice  sodden  fool !     That's 
new  cause  for  thanksgiving !     What's  it  all  about,  Archer  V 
•*'  Oh  !  folly  !  blindness  !  madness  !     Heaven  be  praised 
Oil    Heaven  be  praised  !" 

••  Heaven  be  praised  for  folly,  blindness,  and  madness 
\  Well  Heaven  be  praised  for  all  things !  But  what  the  deuce 
\  is  it,  Clifton  ?» 

"  Mole  !  mole !     Oh,  God,  how  grateful — how  rejoiced  I 
j    am!" 

"  Oh,  Lord,  how  grateful  and  rejoiced  he  is,  that  he's  a 
\  mole !  Clifton ! — What  the  mischief !     Don't  keep  on  striding 
5  about,  talking  to  yourself,  with  your  hand  clapped  to  yoiu 
!  forehead,  like  a  walking  gentleman  in  a  melo-drama,  which 
1  you  always  detested  !    Besides,  you  know  there  is  no  legit i. 
*  mate  dramatic  reason  for  a  married  hero  to  stride  about  and 
lobstreperate,  excepting  only  jealousy,  and  you're  not  jealous  ? 
e !    ceas°   starting  and   vociferating,  and  tell   me   the 
,use — ( the  CAUSE,  my  soul !'  " 
«  Frank  !  I've  been  a  fool !" 
«  That's  no  news." 
«  And  a  brute  !" 
"  Who  doesn't  know  that  ?" 
*'  And  a  cursed  villain." 

"  Nay,  £  I  wouldn't  hear  your  enemy  say  that.' " 
"  Oh"!  Frank,  Frank,  what  shall  I  do  ?" 
"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  unless  you  tell  me  the  premiseg 
of  action." 

"  I  cannot,  Fraxik  !  Dear  Frank,  I  cannot.  The  memory 
of  the  dead  should  be  sacred  ;  so  should  the  difference* 
of I  cannot  tell  you.  Frank." 


THE     GOAL  451 

«  Hist !     Here's  the  doctor." 

Old  Doctor  Shaw  at  this  moment  passed  through  the  par- 
•r,  on  his  way  to  visit  his  patient. 

Major  Clifton  accompanied  him  up  stairs  to  her  chamber. 

When  they  reached  her  bed-chamber,  he  noticed  that  the 
smile  had  departed  from  her  lips,  and  the  color  from  her 
cheeks.  The  old  physician  put  on  his  spectacles,  and  looked 
scrutinizingly  at  her  face  and  hands,  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
forehead  and  bosom,  to  get  the  temperature,  felt  her  pulse, 
felt  her  hands  and  feet,  and  finally  pronounced  her  to  be 
doing  very  well. 

"  May  she  not  be  wakened  up,  sir  ?"  asted  Clifton,  almost 
selfish  in  his  impatience  for  a  reconciliation. 

"  By  no  means.  She  must  be  let  alone — nature  is  her 
best  physician,  and  the  sleep  she  prescribes,  her  best  medi 
cine." 

"  But,  sir,  I  have  something  of  vital  importance  to  com 
municate  to  her!"  persisted  Clifton. 

"  Sir,  it  may  be  of  vital  importance  to  you,  but  it  would 
be  of  fatal  importance  to  Aer,  should  you  rouse  her  to  com 
municate  it,  whatever  it  is." 

Major  Clifton  was  obliged  to  restrain  his  eagerness.  The 
physician  departed,  leaving  only  one  simple  direction : — that 
as  soon  as  she  awoke  she  should  be  put  in  a  warm  bath. 

Archer  Clifton  was  then  summoned  down  stairs  to  join  the 
family  at  supper.  There  he  found  a  lively,  witty,  eccentric 
personage,  who  was  introduced  to  him  as  "  Our  neighbor, 
Mr.  Perry."  And  when  the  evening  was  over,  this  gentle 
man  took  an  opportunity  of  drawing  the  officers  aside,  and 
confidentially  informing  them  that  the  ladies  of  Greenwood 
were  very  much  crowded  with  the  company  of  some  relations 
that  were  staying  with  them  just  then,  and  that  although  they 
would  certainly  press  their  guests  to  remain  all  night,  th« 
latter  could  not  do  so  without  putting  their  kind  hostess  to 
much  inconvenience  ;  he  concluded  by  offering,  and  heartily 
pressing  upon  the  gentlemen  the  accommodations  of  his  own 
house.  Thanking  Mr.  Perry  for  his  kindness,  they  accepted 
his  proffered  hospitality,  and  prepared  to  accompany  him  home 

Major  Clifton  went  up  stairs,  intending  only  to  press  a 
parting  kiss  upon  the  lips  of  his  now  doubly  beloved  Cathe 
rine,  but  when  he  reached  her  chamber,  he  seemed  to  forget 
every  thing  but  her,  and  sat  down  by  her  bedside,  watching 
the  swoet,  pale,  majestic  countenance  in  its  death-like  repose 


452  THE      GOAL. 

Ay!  gaze  on,  Archer  Clifton,  for  when  you  have  oneo 
turned  your  eyes  away,  sharp  heart-pangs  must  be  yours  ere 
vou  look  upon  that  sculptured  face  again  ! 

He  remained  until  summoned  by  Mr.  Perry — then  pressing 
a  fond  kiss  upon  the  calmed  lips,  he  departed  with  a  tacit 
promipa  to  be  at  her  side  early  in  the  morning. 

[n  the  corning  ! 


CONCLUSION 


CHAPTER  XXXVm. 

CONCLUSION. 

So  trial  after  trial  past, 

Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  last, 

Breathless,  half  in  trance, 

"With  the  thrill  of  a  great  deliverance, 

Into  our  arms  forever  more; 

And  thou  shall  know  these  arms  once  curled 

About  thee — what  we  knew  before — 

How  love  is  the  only  good  in  the  world. 

Henceforth  be  loved  as  heart  can  love, 

Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve. — BROWNINO. 

THE  f  ifidential  communication  made  by  Mr.  Perry,  was 
probably  a  ruse  on  the  part  of  that  eccentric  gentleman,  for 
the  purpose  of  obtaining  the  assistance  of  the  officers  in 
"  making  a  night  of  it"  over  at  his  house.  Certainly,  on 
reaching  the  home  of  their  host,  they  found  company  await 
ing  their  arrival,  and  they  passed  the  evening  in  the  joll/ 
festivity  of  country  hospitality.  A  luxurious  supper  was 
served  late  at  night,  from  which  they  did  not  separate  until 
the  "  small  hours."  Thus  many  of  the  guests  overslept 
themselves  the  next  morning,  which  delayed  the  family  break 
fast  several  hours.  Therefore  it  was  after  ten  o'clock,  before 
Major  Clifton,  very  much  against  the  will  of  bis 'odd  enter 
tainer,  bid  him  farewell,  and  set  out  to  return  to  Greenwood. 
Jt  was  eleven  o'clock  when  he  reached  the  farm-house.  The 
ladies  were  all  in  their  sitting-room,  engaged  in  their  various 
•iomestic  occupations  of  netting,  sewing,  knitting,  etc., 
when  he  entered,  and  gave  them  the  morning  salutation 
And  then — 

"  How  is  Mrs.  Clifton  this  morning,  ladies  *     Can  1  see 
her  immediately  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Clifton,  sir !"   said  the  eldest  lady,  looking  up  in 
surprise.    "Mrs.  Clifton  is  gone   sir.    Did  you  not  know  it*" 


454  CONCLUSION. 

"  Gone  ?"  repeated  Archer  Clifton,  incredulously. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Gone!"  he  reiterated,  in  amazement. 

«  Yes,  sir.     We  certainly  thought  that  you  were 
of  her  departure." 

"  Most  certainly  not !  Gone!  When?  how?  excuse  mt, 
madam,  but  where  has  she  gone  i" 

"  We  do  not  know,  sir,  indeed,  since  you  cannot  tell  uts. 
We  thought  that  she  had  gone  to  join  you,  at  Mr.  Perry'u 
We  were  very  sorry,  but — " 

"  Plow  long  since  she  left  ?  How  did  she  go  ?  Pardon  my 
vehemence,  dear  madam." 

"  We  partake  of  your  anxiety,  sir.  Mrs.  Clifton  left  ua 
about  four  hours  since,  at  seven  o'clock,  immediately  after 
breakfast.  She  went  away  on  the  horse  that  was  brought 
here  yesterday  as  her  own.  She  left  us  very  much  against 
our  arguments  and  persuasions.  We  would  gladly  have  de 
tained  her." 

"  Gone !     Good  Heavens,  was  she  able  to  go." 

u  No,  sir,  assuredly  she  was  not." 

Archer  Clifton  sank  into  a  chair,  exclaiming — 

"  Pray,  tell  me,  dear  madam,  the  circumstances  of  this 
departure,  and  all  that  occurred  from,  the  time  I  left,  until 
she  went  away." 

"  Why,  sir,  after  you  left,  she  continued  in  the  same  deep 
sleep  until  nearly  nine  o'clock,  when  she  began  to  show 
symptoms  of  awakening.  I  sent  out  and  ordered  the  hot 
bath  to  be  prepared,  and  sat  down  to  watch  her.  As  she 
drew  near  to  consciousness,  her  face  lost  that  look  of  pro 
found  repose,  which  had  previously  marked  it,  and  began  to 
assume  an  expression  of  suffering.  Her  brows  folded,  and 
her  lips  sprang  apart  and  quivered,  as  with  a  spasm  of  sharp 
pain,  and  her  eyes  flared  open  suddenly,  and  she  was  awake. 
I  asked  her  how  she  felt,  but  she  shook  her  head,  and  closed 
her  eyes  again,  and  shut  her  teeth  tightly,  !;ke  one  trying  to 
bear  silently  some  sharp,  inward  pain.  The  bath  was  then 
prepared  by  the  bedside,  and  we  began  to  get  her  ready  for 
it ;  but  on  the  slightest  attempt  to  move  her,  she  groaned 
sz  deeply,  that  we  scarcely  dared  to  lift  her  for  some  minutes. 
I  knew  then  how  it  was ; — that  her  muscles  were  stiff  and 
painful,  from  the  severe  exertion  of  such  a  long  equestrian 
journey.  And  I  knew  also  that  the  hot  bath  would  relievo 
her ;  and  the  doctoj  's  directions  had  been  peremptory,  so  we 


CONCLUSION.  455 

tried  again,  and  placed  her  in  the  bath.  And  very  sooa  the 
hot  water  seemed  to  alleviate  her  sufferings.  And  when  w<3 
put  her  comfortably  to  bed  again,  she  thanked  us  very 
sweetly.  I  asked  her  how  she  found  herself.  She  answered, 
4  Better' — adding,  that  she  thought,  by  her  hard  exercise, 
el  10  had  hurt  some  part  of  her  chest  or  side,  which  had  given 
her  great  pain,  but  which  was  now  partially  relieved." 

"  Did  she  seem  very  much  better  ?     Was  her  voice  strong 
in  speaking?" 

"  No,  it  was  very  weak  and  faint,  and  frequently  broken, 
as  by  some  inward  pain,  as  I  said." 

"  Go  on,  dear  lady." 

"  We  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  plate  of  toast,  of 
both  of  which  she  partook  slightly.  It  was  then  after  nine 
o'clock,  and  she  begged  that  she  might  not.  disturb  us — that 
we  would  retire  to  bed — and  said  that  she  was  better,  and 
would  try  to  sleep  again.  She  then  composed  herself  to  rest, 
and  the  girls  all  left  the  room.  I  remained  watching  until 
I  thought  she  slept,  and  then  I  lay  down  to  rest  on  the  other 
bed  in  the  same  room.  I  think  she  passed  a  good  night,  for 
I  could  not  divest  myself  of  uneasiness  upon  her  account,  and 
o  I  could  not  get  to  sleep  until  after  midnight,  and  during 
all  that  time  I  never  heard  her  move,  or  sigh.  After  I  did 
get  to  sleep,  however,  I  slept  very  soundly,  till  near  six 
o'clock.  And  when  I  awoke,  what  was  my  surprise,  to  sec 
her  up  and  dressed,  as  for  a  journey.  She  looked  very  pale 
and  ill  and  sorrowful,  and  in  fastening  her  habit,  she  fre 
quently  stopped  and  leaned  against  the  bed-post  for  support 
1  arose  quickly  and  questioned  her  wishes,  and  begged  her 
to  lie  down  again.  But  she  only  waved  her  hand  against 
me,  with  a  mute,  imploring  gesture.  I  expostulated  witb 
her,  but  arguments  and  persuasions  were  alike  in  vain — sh« 
only  answered,  'I  must  go.'" 

"  Oh.  Heaven  !     Where,  where  did  she  wish  to  go  ?" 

"  We  do  not  know.     She  was  not  communicative,  and  w 
iid  not  like  to  question  her." 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  madam.  Indeed  I  fear  my  question 
ings  must  appear  almost  rude,  but  my  great  anxiety  must  ba 
my  excuse." 

"  Your  anxiety  is  very  natural,  sir,  and  we  share  it." 

"  Did  she  know  that  I  was  in  the  neighborhood  ?  Did  any 
one  inform  ner  V 

'*  We  cannot  toll  who+i-r  she  knew  of  your  piesence  here. 


456  CONCLUSION. 

We  did  not  tell  her,  for,  as  1  said,  she  made  no  inquiries 
and  there  was  a  reserve  about  her  despair  that  shut  itself  in 
from  all  interference.  Indeed  it  would  be  scarcely  doing 
justice  to  her  look  of  deep  sorrow,  to  say  that  she  was  the 
most  hopeless  looking  human  being  I  ever  saw  in  my  life 
She  seemed  like  one  who  had  seen  her  last  hope  go  down." 

"  Merciful  God !" 

"  We  used  every  method,  except  force,  to  prevent  her 
leaving  us,  though  we  were  impressed  with  the  idea  that  she 
was  going  to  you.  And  after  her  departure,  in  consulting 
together,  we  were  half  sorry  that  we  had  not  essayed  gentle 
coercion,  for  we  all  suspected  that  the  lady's  reason  was 
clouded." 

"  Great  God !  I  have  driven  her  to  madness — perhaps  to 
death !"  thought  Archer  Clifton,  but  then  he  exerted  self- 
control  enough  to  conceal  the  depths  and  extent  of  his 
anxiety,  and  asked  "  What  road  did  she  take  ?" 

"  The  North-west  road,  sir,  which  branches  off  towards 
Mr.  Perry's  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up,  which  was  one  of  our 
reasons  for  supposing  that  she  had  gone  to  join  you." 

Taking  a  hasty  leave  of  the  family,  Major  Clifton  remounted 
his  horse,  and  rode  furiously  up  the  road,  meeting  General 
Conyers  and  Frank,  who  had  lagged  behind  on  their  return 
home.  Stopping  tham,  he  communicated  what  had  happened, 
but  concealed  his  worst  fears,  and  merely  said  that  he  pre 
sumed  that  Catherine  had  left  for  her  Virginia  home,  in  igno 
rance  of  his  liberation,  and  his  presence  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  that  he  wished,  if  possible,  to  overtake  her,  before  she 
had  proceeded  far  upon  her  road.  Frank  immediately  turned 
rein  to  accompany  him,  while  General  Conyers,  with  nmny 
expressions  of  regret  and  concern,  took  leave  of  them,  to 
return  to  Greenwood,  and  explain  their  absence. 

The  road  lay  for  many  miles  through  a  dense  forest,  and 
they  galloped  onward  for  hours  without  meeting  a  single 
traveler  or  seeing  a  solitary  house.  Near  the  outskirts  of 
the  forest  they  came  upon  a  party  of  stragglers,  whom  they 
judged  to  be  deserters  from  the  British  army.  But  theae 
men,  when  questioned,  gave  cautious  and  unsatisfactory  an 
swers — sulkily  insisting  that  no  lady  riding  alone  had  passed 
that  way.  They  next  inquired  of  some  field  laborers,  who 
were  stacking  grain  a  little  farther  on.  Thr y  replied  that  a 
<ady  ir»  a  dark  riding-dress,  riding  on  a  bay  horse,  had 


CONCLUSION.  457 

boy,  mounted  on  a  white  mare,  attended  ner.  Perhaps  thii 
was  Catherine,  and  her  attendant  seme  chance  passenger. 
They  questioned  more  particularly,  and  the  description  given 
answered  to  her  personal  appearance.  They  asked  what  road 
she  had  taken,  and  being  told  "  straight  ahead,"  they  set  off 
in  a  gallop.  A  few  miles  further  on  they  again  inquired, 
and  were  told  that  such  a  lady,  attended  by  a  boy,  had  passed 
about  an  hour  before.  Full  of  hope,  they  put  spurs  to  their 
hor^e}  and  hurried  on,  congratulating  themselves  that  they 
were  gaining  on  her  so  fast. 

At  length  they  reached  a  school-house  in  the  woods, 
where,  tied  to  a  fence,  they  saw  the  bay  horse,  with  a  side 
saddle,  and  a  white  pony,  with  a  boy's  saddle.  Dismounting 
quickly,  Captain  Fairfax  hastened  to  the  school-room  door, 
and  inquired  of  the  master  to  whom  the  animal  belonged  ? 

"  To  Mrs.  Jones,  who  has  just  brought  her  son  to  school," 
answered  the  teacher,  full  of  surprise  at  the  question. 

ALd  there,  indeed,  sat  "  Mrs.  Jones"  and  young  Hopeful, 
looking  as  if  they  considered  such  investigation  into  their 
property  very  impertinent,  to  say  the  least. 

Disappointed,  Frank  returned  to  Major  Clifton  with  this 
explanation,  and  they  looked  at  each  other  in  chagrin  and 
perplexity — Major  Clifton  with  great  difficulty  maintaining 
his  self-possession,  and  concealing  the  dreadful  forebodings 
that  overshadowed  his  mind.  They  were  now  thirty  miles 
from  Greenwood,  and  the  sun  was  getting  low. 

"  I  do  not  see  anything  better  to  do,  Archer,  than  to 
keep  on  till  we  reach  Washington  City.  No  doubt  you  will 
see  her  there,  if  you  do  not  overtake  her  before." 

Again  putting  whip  to  their  horses,  they  galloped  on, 
passing  the  great  belt  of  forest,  and  entering  upon  the  bare 
lowlands,  lying  south  of  the  city.  It  was  late  in  the  night 
when  they  descended  the  road  leading  to  the  Anacostic 
bridge.  They  found  that  the  bridge  had  been  destroyed, 
and  they  experienced  much  difficulty  and  delay  before  find 
ing  a  boat  to  take  them  across.  They  entered  the  ruined 
and  blackened  city  a  little  after  midnight.  At  that  hour 
little  opportunity  of  search  was  afforded,  and  that  little  was 
fruitless.  They  had  much  trouble  in  finding  a  night's 
lodging  in  the  desolate  city,  but  at  length  obtained  indiffer 
ent  shelter,  and  retired,  with  the  determination  to  pursue 
their  investigations  in  the  morning.  At  an  early  hour  they 
and  vent  out,  making  inquiries  in  every  direction,  but 


458  CONCLUSION. 

in  vain.  No  one  had  seen  or  heard  of  the  missing  lady 
though  many  cheerfully  suggested  that  she  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  British  soldiery,  who  were  on  their  retreat 
through  the  low  counties.  Strongly  impressed  with  the  idea 
hat  she  must  be  in  or  near  Washington,  they  were  unwilling 
to  abandon  their  search,  but  remained  in  the  city  all  day,  and 
through  the  next  night,  before  resigning  all  hope  of  finding 
her  there.  Even  upon  the  second  morning,  Major  Clifton 
and  Captain  Fairfax  were  divided  in  their  opinion  as  to 
whether  they  had  better  go  back  to  St.  Mary's,  or  go  on 
to  R .  Major  Clifton,  full  of  the  darkest  presenti 
ments,  was  disposed  to  turn  back.  Captain  Fairfax,  on  the 
contrary,  full  of  hope  and  confidence,  urged  his  'friend  to 
push  forward.  While  they  were  debating,  General  Conyers . 
rode  up  and  joined  them.  He  said  he  had  but  that  morning 
reached  the  city,  and  had  been  an  hour  in  search  of  them. 
In  answer  to  their  anxious  questions,  General  Conyers  in 
formed  them  that  up  to  late  the  night  before,  no  news  had 
been  heard  of  Mrs.  Clifton — that  she  evidently  was  not  in  the 
neighborhood  he  had  just  left.  He  seemed  grieved  and 
alarmed  to  find  that  they  had  not  yet  overtaken  Catherine, 
but  expressed  a  strong  conviction  that  she  must  be  on  her 
way  home.  He  advised  them  to  pursue  the  journey,  and 
regretting  that  peremptory  duty  called  him  to  an  interview 
«nth  the  Secretary  of  War,  and  prevented  his  bearing  them 
company,  took  leave,  and  rode  away — turning  back  once  to 
beg  that  as  soon  as  they  had  found  Catherine,  they  would 
write  to  him  at  Washington,  and  let  him  know.  Major  Clif 
ton  and  Frank  procured  fresh  horses,  and  leaving  their  own, 
set  forward  on  their  anxious  journey. 

The  gloomiest  forebodings  darkened  the  mind  of  Archef 
Clifton.  There  was  one  ccene  ever  present  to  his  mentaJ 
vision — where,  at  the  end  of  her  dreadful  journey,  fainting 
^rom  incredible  exertion,  Catherine  had  fallen  into  his  arms, 
and  he  had  received  her  with  a  harsh  and  stern  rebuke  for 
making  a  scene : — one  look  and  tone  of  hers,  that  filled  his 
soul  with  remorse  and  terror  prophetic  of  doom — her  last  de 
spairing  gaze — her  last  despairing  tones,  before  she  sank 
into  insensibility.  How  plaintively  they  echoed  through  his 

heart "  Patience,  patience,  patience Indeed   I   will 

not  trouble  you,  love 1  will  go    away Maybe  God 

will  let  me  die."     Would  he  ever  forget  those  words,  thai 
voice,  t^at  gaze  of  unutterable  but  meek  despair' 


"  I  have  broken  her  heart.  I  have  killed  her.  1  have 
killed  her.  Woman's  nature  could  not  live  through  what  1 
have  driven  he.r  through!  Poor,  pocr  girl! — so  bitterly 
slandered! — so  cruelly  tortured  !  Persecuted  unto  death — 
or  worse — unto  madness  !  And  where  is  she  now  ?  Per- 
iiaps  the  waves  of  the  Patuxent  roll  over  her  cold  bosom — 
calmed  at  last ;  or  perhaps  she  lives — a  mad  and  houseless 
wanderer ;  but  I  will  not  believe  this,  I  will  not  believe  it1 
She  may  be  dead ;  she  must  be  broken-hearted  but  not  inad ' 
All-Merciful  God ! — not  mad  !  She  may  be  dead — and  that 
would  be  just,  for  it  would  secure  her  happiness  and  my  own 
retribution,  in  the  only  way  that  both  could  oe  secured, 
perhaps." 

J&>t  a  hint  of  this  prophetic  despair  was  breathed  to  Fair 
fax.  Clifton's  indomitable  pride,  regnant  even  over  this 
anxiety,  forbade  the  communication  of  his  remorse  and  alarm, 
ancf  the  great  reason  he  had  for  both.  Yet  Frank  observed 
and  tried  to  cheer  his  friend's  deep  gloom. 

"  Come,  rouse  yourself,  Archer,  we  are  nearing  L —  — , 
and  shall  be  at  White  Cliffs  by  night-fall,  and  who  but  Mrs. 
Clifton  will  meet  us  at  the  door,  with  her  gentle  smile  and 
gentle  welcome,  and  then  shall  we  not  all  spend  a  jolly  even 
ing,  laughing  over  our  cups  of  tea  at  the  famous  wild-goose 
chase  we  have  had  ?"  But  little  effect  had  Frank's  words  on 
his  drooping  fellow  traveler.  Only  as  they  drew  near  White 
Cliffs  his  depression  rose  into  feverish  excitement.  Arrived 

at  L ,  they  inquired  if  Mrs.  Clifton  had  passed  through 

there,  and  were  informed  that  she  had  not.  It  was  long 
after  night-fall  that  they  reached  White  Cliffs.  Here  the 
terrified  house  servants,  roused  up  from  their  sleep,  answered 
to  all  inquiries  upon  the  subject,  that  they  had  not  seen  or 
heard  from  their  mistress  since  she  left  to  go  to  Washington. 
Henny  pushed  foremost  of  all  to  inquire  about  her  k'  deal 
mist'ess  and  brother  Jack.""  But  with  a  gesture  of  despera 
tion,  Major  Clifton  sent  her  off  unsatisfied,  and  turned  an 
agonized  look  upon  Frank.  Fairfax  was  almost  discouraged, 
but,  nevertheless,  he  answered  that  silent  appeal  hopefully, 
saying,  "  Oh  '  doubtless  she  will  be  home  to-morrow,  or  the 
next  day,  at  farthest.  We  ought  to  have  remembered  that 
the  had  not  recovered  from  her  fatigue,  and  that  she  would 
probably  take  her  own  time  in  returning.  We  have  outridden 
her,  evidently." 

Major  Clifton  rejr ined  bv  a  groan.     He  ordered  refresh- 


460  CONCLUSION. 

mcnts  for  his  guest,  and  soon  after  attended  him  to  his  room, 
and  retired  to  his  own,  not  to  rest,  but  to  walk  about  dis 
tractedly,  and  then  he  burst  into  Catherine's  vacant  chamber, 
and  threw  himself  down  upon  her  empty  bed,  in  the  verr 
anguish  of  bereavement.  His  long  residence  in  the  lowlands 
of  the  Chesapeake,  during  the  hot  summer  months,  had  pre 
disposed  him  to  illness.  His  long  journey,  under  the  burning 
it  un  of  August  by  day,  and  heavy  dews  of  August  by  night, 
fatigue  and  anxiety,  loss  of  food  and  sleep,  all  conspired  tc 
bring  on  the  pernicious  fever,  and  before  morning  Archer 
Clifton  was  tossing  and  raving  in  high  delirium.  Summoned 
by  the  alarmed  servants,  Captain  Fairfax  was  early  at  hia 
bedside,  and  seeing  his  condition,  dispatched  a  niessenge) 
for  the  family  physician.  For  many  days,  his  state  alternate? 
between  delirium  and  stupor,  and  his  life  tottered  upon  th* 
edge  of  the  grave.  And  in  his  delirium  all  his  raving  wa? 
of  Catherine — still  Catherine — now  adjuring  her  as  hi? 
Nemesis — now  wooing  her  by  the  most  tender  epithets  of  af 
rection — calling  her  his  "  poor  wounded  dove,"  his  "  broken 
hearted  child,"  etc.  Often  he  repeated  plaintively  her  las» 
sorrowful,  hopeless  words. 

At  length  the  crisis  of  the  disease  came.  The  delirium 
arose  to  frenzy.  His  spirit,  as  well  as  his  flesh,  seemed  to 
be  passing  through  the  very  fires  of  purgatory.  He  raved 
incessantly — now  of  Carolyn,  now  of  Georgia,  then  of  his 
mother,  and  always  of  Catherine — sometimes  calling  down 
the  bitterest  imprecations  upon  his  own  head,  sometimes 
severely  reproaching  Georgia,  sometimes  pleading  his  cause 
with  his  mother,  and  always  breaking  oft  to  soothe  and  coax 
Catherine,  as  if  she  were  circled  in  his  arm. 

At  length  the  frenzy  fairly  exhausted  itself,  and  ho  sank 
into  a  comatose  state,  to  dream  of  Catherine,  to  see  visions 
of  Catherine,  to  feel  her  gentle  presence,  and  healing  minis 
trations  all  about  him.  Then  came  insensibility,  which  lasted 
ne  did  not  know  how  long,  for  all  sense  of  time  and  place 
end  existence  itself  was  blotted  out. 

And  at  last  he  awoke — the  burning  fever  had  gone  ou» 
from  his  blood,  and  a  delicious  coolness  ran  through  all  Jiis 
veins — the  terrible  nervous  excitement  had  subsided,  and  a 
»uxurious  calm  lay  upon  mind  and  body,  until  memory  camo 
to  disturb  it,  perhaps  to  torture  it.  He  was  experiencing  the 
delightful  sensations  of  restoration  and  convalescence,  and 
bia  physical  state  alone  would  have  been  sufficient  cause  tor 


CONCLUSION.  461 

buppmess,  but  for  one  aching,  aching  spot,  ine  sharp  point 
of  agony  as  it  were  in  his  heart's  core.  And  when  tie  cry 
in  hi*  bosom  found  its  corresponding  expression,  the  word 
was  "  Catherine  '"  "  Catherine!" 

His  eyes  had  opened  on  his  darkened  chamber,  whore, 
upon  the  hearth,  glimmered  a  feeble  taper,  that  scarcely  sent 
its  weak  rays  beyond  the  edges  of  the  hearth.  He  knew  it 
must  be  near  day,  for  the  low,  melodious  detonating  sounds 
of  early  morning  were  echoing  through  the  mountains.  Tho 
chamber  seemed  deserted — not  if  Catherine  had  been  living 
would  his  sick  bed  have  been  so  abandoned,  he  thought.  He 
turned  and  groaned  from  the  depths  of  his  bosom — "  Oh, 
Catherine !  Catherine."  His  room  was  very  dusky — he 
?ould  not  see/ihe  presence  by  his  couch — but  now  gentler 
ihan  "  tired  eyelids  upon  tired  eyes"  fell  a  soft  hand  upon 
his  brow. 

Surely  there  was  but  one  touch  like  that  in  the  world ! 

A  new  born,  feeble  hope  was  trembling  at  his  heart,  ? 
hope  that  he  feared  to  disturb  lest  it  should  die  in  disap 
pointment  ;  that  he  dared  scarcely  submit  to  the  test  of  cer 
tainty,  lest  that  certainty  should  bring  not  joy  but  despair 
At  last,  trembling  with  doubt,  he  murmured,  "  Am  I  dream 
ing,  or,  dear  Kate,  are  you  here  ?" 

"  I  am  here,"  she  answered  softly. 

"  Darling,  are  you  well  ?" 

"  Very  well — but  you  are  not  well  enough  to  talk  yet,"' 
said  Kate,  gently. 

"  Dear  Kate — how  long  have  you  been  home  ?" 

"  Since  the  day  you  were  taken  ill>"  replied  Kate,  at  the 
same  time  encircling  his  shoulders  with  one  arm,  and  raising 
him,  while  with  the  other  hand  she  placed  a  glass  to  his  lips 

Whether  the  medicine  were  a  potent,  sedative,  or  whetho 
her  gentler  touch  had  a  soothing  effect,  or  whether  both  thest 
influences  acted  upon  him,  I  cannot  tell ;  but  certainly  the 
nervous  excitement,  just  raised  by  the  discovery  of  her  pre 
tence,  subsided  into  perfect  calmness,  and  he  lay  with  his 
hand  folded  in  Catherine's,  until  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  awoke  again  it  was  sunrise,  and  his  room  looked 
cneerful,  and  the  family  physician  and  Frank  Fairfax  stood 
at  his  bedside,  with  their  congratulations  on  his  convale 
scence.  And  while  they  staid,  his  eyes  were  roving  rest 
lessly  around  the  room,  in  search  of  some  one  else. 

And  when   they  went  away,  Catherine  entered,  bringing 


462  CONCLUSION 

cold  water,  ani  came  and  sponged  his  head  and  hands.  And 
then  she  wer.t  out,  and  returned  with  his  light  breakfast. 
She  sat  upon  ^he  bed,  supporting  his  head  and  shculdera 
upon  her  boson,  while  he  ate.  At  last— 

"  Take  it  all  away,  dearest  Kate,"  he  said,  "  and  sit  whero 
1  can  see  yo'i.  It  is  you  who  are  my  restorative." 

When  the  service  was  removed,  and  his  pillows  were  ar* 
ranged,  and  he  was  comfortably  laid  back  upon  them  again, 
he  said — 

"  Dearest  Kate,  do  you  know  that  I  know  at  last,  how 
deeply  yon  have  been  injured  ?" 

She  stooped  down  to  him  saying,  softly — 

"  Please  do  not  try  to  talk  to-day.  Yield  to  the  inclina 
tion  you  have  for  sleep.  It  is  so  needful  to  you,  and  will 
prove  so  restorative.  And  to-morrow,  when  you  are  better, 
we  can  converse." 

He  smiled  upon  her,  and  laid  his  hand  in  hers,  ana  while 
she  clasped  it,  fell  asleep. 

With  a  strong  constitution  like  that  of  Archer  Clifton,  the 
convalescence  is  rapid.  And  Catherine's  presence,  as  he 
said,  was  his  true  restorative. 

The  fourth  morning  from  this,  he  was  very  much  bettci. 
and  reclined  comfortably  upon  his  couch  watching  Catherine3 
who  moved  quietly  about  the  room  setting  things  in  order. 
He  was  much  wasted  by  illness,  and  his  face  looked  still 
more  sallow  and  haggard  for  the  dark,  dishevelled  hair  and 
whiskers  that  encircled  it ;  but  his  countenance  wore  an  ex 
pression  of  subdued  joy  as  he  lay  and  watched  Kate.  At 
last— 

"  Are  you  so  much  afraid  that  Henny  will  disturb  me  by 
rattling  a  cup  and  saucer,  or  jingling  a  teaspoon,  that  you 
must  do  all  yourself?  My  devoted  Kate,  I  am  not  so  ill. 
Oome  and  sit  upon  the  lounge  by  me,  and  let  me  talk  to 
you,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  arms. 

She  went  and  sat  upon  the  side  of  the  couch,  and  he  en 
circled  her  with  his  arm,  while  he  said — 

**  My  dear  Kate,  do  you  know  that  I  thought  I  had  los* 
you «" 

She  raised  her  eyes  In  gentle  wonder. 

"  Yes,  I  thought  your  great  and  undeserved  misfortunes 
had  killed  or  maddened  you." 

"  It  was  the  approach  of  your  illness  that  gave  you  sucl» 
dreadful  thoughts,"  said  Catherine,  gently. 


CONCLUSION.  463 

"  Not  entirely,  dear  Kate.  It  was  your  last  words  when 
you  fainted  on  ray  bosom — do  you  remember  them  ?" 

"  No — I  remember  nothing  very  distinctly  from  the  mo- 
went  I  threw  myself  in  among  the  soldiery,  and  saw  the 
bayonets  glittering  around  me,  until  I  awoke  and  foand  my 
gelf  in  the  farmer's  house." 

"  Ah !  don't  you  remember  that  in  answer  to  my  harsh 
question — harsh  Kate,  because  I  was  still  in  blindness — you 
answered — {  Patience,  patience,  patience ;  indeed  I  will  not 
trouble  you,  love — I  will  go  away  ;  maybe  God  will  let  mo 
die.'" 

"  Did  I  really  use  those  words  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  with  such  a  look  of  hopeless  resignation  !  I 
thought  that  I  had  lost  you,  Kate.  I  thought  that  you  were 
dead  or  mad,  or  at  least  had  been  driven  from  me,  for  you 
said  so  earnestly,  *  I  will  go  away  ?' J: 

"  Did  I  say  that  ?  I  do  not  remember.  But  I  suppose  1 
meant  that  I  would  go  home.  And,  oh !  do  you  think — " 

"  Think  what,  dear  Kate  ?" 

She  paused,  and  her  face  flushed.  She  had  been  about  to 
say,  "  Do  you  think  that  anything  but  your  own  will  would 
have  driven  me  from  you  ?"  But  her  old  shyness  returned 
upon  her  stronger  than  ever. 

He  understood  her,  and  told  her  so  by  the  tightening 
pressure  of  his  arm. 

"  And,  dear  Kate,  we  could  hear  of  you  nowhere.  You 
were  long  in  returning,  Catherine." 

"  Yes,  when  I  started  I  was  still  very  unequal  to  the  re- 
t.uru  journey,  I  had  weakened  myself,  and  was  obliged  to  ride 
slowly.  And  then  I  lost  my  way  coming  back — that  was 
how  you  missed  me." 

"  And  does  my  Kate  know  that  I  know  now  how  deeply 
she  has  been  wronged,  and  how  nobly  she  has  borne  those 
wrongs — returning  always  good  for  evil.  And  can  she  guesg 
the  remorse  and  sorrow  of  heart  that  hurried  on  this  fit  of  ill 
ness  ?"  Then  suddenly  overcome  with  emotion,  he  exclaimed  : 
11  Ob,  my  God,  Catherine  !  can  you  imagine  how  I  suffered  ?" 

"  Y  js,  yes,  indeed  I  know  it  all !  I  learned  all — all — i» 
tho  raving  of  your  delirium.  Others  thought  it  mere,  raving 
but  I  knew." 

"  And  do  you  know  who  forged  that  fatal  letter,  Kate  ** 

«  Yes." 

«  Who  was  it,  then  1" 


461  CONCLUSION. 

"  You  said,  Mrs.  Georgia." 

"  Yes.     It  was  strange  you  never  suspected  that,  Kuie  n 

« I  did  suspect  it." 

"  You  did  suspect  it !"  exclaimed  Archer  Cliftons  in  sur 
prise. 

«  Yes." 

"  And  you  never  breathed  that  suspicion  !" 

No,  because  I  had  no  certain  evidence  against  her.  1* 
would  have  been  wrong  to  have  acted  upon  a  mere  suspicion." 

^'  Just  and  upright  in  all  things  !" 

"'I  only  believed  God's  promises.  I  left  my  cause  to 
Heaven." 

"  And  Heaven  has  vindicated  you,  my  Kate  !  You  have 
seen  my  sufferings  since  discovering  how  unjustly  you  had 
been  condemned  ;  but,  oh,  Kate,  I  suffered  also  when  I  madly 
believed  you  guilty."  , 

"  I  know  you  did.  I  do  know  you  did.  It  was  that  that 
gave  point  to  my  own  sorrow." 

"  When  I  cast  you  into  the  fire,  while  you  were  tortured, 
/  was  scathed  !  I  loved  you  too  perfectly  not  to  suffer  with 
you.  You  were  too  really  a  portion  of  myself,  for  me  not  to 
suffer  through  you.  I  am  thinking  of  that  Archbishop, 
Kate — whose  name  I  have  forgotten — " 

«  Cranmer  ?" 

"  Yes,  Cranmer  !  See  how  our  very  unspoken  thoughts 
rush  together,  dear  wife.  Yes,  Kate,  I  was  thinking  of  Cran 
mer,  who  thrust  his  offending  hand  into  the  flames,  and  held 
it  there,  until  it  burned  to  cinders,  and  dropped  off.  Oh,  my 
Kate !  was  it  his  hand  alone  that  suffered,  or  did  not  his 
whole  body  agonize  with  it  ?  And  so,  my  Catherine,  when 
believing  you  unworthy,  I  thrust  you  into  the  fire,  did  I  not 
suffer  through  you  in  all  my  nature  ?  I  did  !  I  did,  Cathe 
rine  !  Lift  up  the  hair  from  my  temples,  and  tell  me  what 
you  see  ?" 

Kate  lifted  the  clustering  dark  curls,  and  answered — 

**  A  few  white  hairs." 

"  The  tears  I  made  you  shed,  bleached  them,  Kate." 

She  did  not  reply,  except  by  meeting  his  gaze  with  a  look 
rf  earnest  affection.  4 

He  resumed — 

"  Yes — even  then,  when  insanely  I  believed  it  possible  for 
vou  to  be  guilty — even  then — every  look  of  anguish  on  your 
brow  wrung  my  Jjosom — every  tear  you  dropped,  fell  hot  upon 


CONCLUSION.  4b5 

my  heart.  Stoop  down.  Let  me  tell  you  one  little  simple 
thing — I  sometimes  saw — oh,  I  used  to  watch  you  so  closely, 
because  I  could  not  help  it,  Kate  ; — when  I  was  harsh  and 
stern,  I  sometimes  saw  your  chin  quiver- -like  a  grieved 
child's — and,  Kate,  my  whole  soul  would  be  overflowed  with 
tenderness,  which,  to  conceal,  I  had  to  start  up  and  leave  the 
room,  with  every  appearance  of  anger  that  I  could  falsely 
assume." 

Kate  wept — her  tears  fell  fast  upon  his  hand,  that  she  had 
clasped  between  her  own. 

"  And,  oh,  Catherine,  to  think  that  all  this  trouble  I  have 
suffered,  and  have  inflicted  upon  you,  should  have  been  so 
unnecessary  !" 

Catherine  slid  from  the  edge  of  the  couch  down  upon  her 
knees  beside  it,  and  her  countenance  grew  earnest,  and  in 
spired  with  faith  and  love,  as  she  clasped  her  hands,  and 
6aid — 

"  Oh,  no  !  it  was  not  unnecessary.  God  sunVed  it  to  be, 
and  it  was  well — very  well !  <  All  things  work  together  for 
good,  to  them  that  love  the  Lord.'  And  every  pang  that 
has  ploughed  our  hearts  in  the  past,  will  make  them  fruitful 
of  good  in  the  future.  One  fruit  is,  that  the  suffering  of  the 
last  two  years  has  drawn  our  hearts  together  as  nothing  else 
could  have  done.  Because — " 

Again  in  the  full  tide  of  her  earnest  thoughts,  the  old 
bashfulness  flushed  her  cheek,  and  silenced  her  tongue.  She 
wished  to  say,  "  Because  I  think  you  would  never  have  known 
me  so  well,  or  held  me  so  dear,  if  you  had  not  proved  me  by 
fiery  trial." 

And  again  his  heart  rightly  interpreted  her  silence,  and  he 
answered  her  unuttered  thought  by  saying — 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,  my  own  dear  blessing !  You  are 
right,  for  I  never  should  have  known  your  full  value  but  for 
the  trial  you  have  passed  through.  Yet  not  now  only,  but 
always  have  I  loved  you,  dear  wife.  I  denied  it  to  myself — 
I  denied  it  to  others — but  there  it  was,  the  perfect,  vital 
love,  as  sure  as  fate.  When  I  first  saw  you,  Kate,  I  met  in 
ycur  face,  your  voice,  your  manner, — yes,  in  every  look  and 
ton  3  and  gesture,  in  your  whole  unity — something  that  I  had 
vainly  sought  through  life — something  homogenial  to  my  na 
ture — something  perfectly  satisfying.  You  seemed,  deal 
Kate,  not  so  much  a  separate  existence  as  the  completion  of 
•ny  own.  What  did  you  say,  Kate  ?  Your  voice,  too,  in 


4-66  CONCLUSION. 

1  ever  soft,  gentle  and  low,'  —  but  speak  again  dearest.  It  la 
Romcthing  that  my  heart  listens  to  hear." 

"  I  said  that  I,  too,  when  we  first  met,''  she  hesitated,  and 
her  cheek  crimsoned,  but  feeling  that  he  listened  breathless 
for  her  words,  she  continued,  —  "Well,  only  this:  I  felt  aa 
if  I  were  wholly  yours,  Archer  —  I  have  felt  so  ever  since." 

Again  she  paused  from  native  bashfulness. 

"  Kiss  me,  Kate,  —  you  never  kissed  me  in  your  life." 

Blushing  and  timid  as  the  girl  that  she  was,  she  stooped 
and  lightly  touched  his  lips  with  hers.  But  laughing  fondly 
he  threw  his  arm  around  her,  exclaiming  — 

"  You  child  !  you  child  !  Married  two  years  and  cannot 
kiss  me  !"  and  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  for  one  instant,  in 
a  passionate  embrace,  that  sent  life  and  gladness  through  all 
her  veins,  and  then  he  said,  "  I  am  not  ill,  Catherine.  I 
have  drawn  health  from  your  lips.  See  who  is  at  the  door, 
love." 

Kate  went  and  admitted  Frank,  who  came  in  accoutred 
for  traveling. 

"  Ha  !  where  now,  Fairfax  f  asked  Clifton. 

"  For  Richmond  to-day." 

"  No  !     You  will  not  leave  us  so  soon  ?" 

"  Yes,  —  the  truth  is,  I  must.  I  have  an  engagement  to 
fulfill  there  on  Thursday." 

"  An  engagement  !  Of  what  nature,  Frank,  if  a  friend 
aiay  ask  ?" 

"  Why,  the  fact  is,"  said  Captain  Fairfax,  growing  very 
red  in  the  face,  with  the  effort  of  pulling  on  a  pair  of  gloves, 
"  I  am  going  to  be  married." 

"  Married  !  Qh,  Frank  !  and  not  to  tell  us  anything  about 
it  till  now." 

"  Hem  !  Thefe  was  no  proper  opportunity  till  now," 
stammered  tho  yo^ng  man. 

"  Well,  who  is  the  lady,  Frank  ?"  asked  Clifton,  while 
Catherine  looked  and  listened  with  interest. 

"  The  only  friend  that  my  dear  Zuleime  found  in  all  her 
adversity  —  Mrs.  Knight,"  said  Frank,  and  then  he  added, 
quickly,*"  It  was  a  long  time  before  my  mother's  pride  could 
be  reconciled  to  this,  but  Ida's  genuine  goodness  won  her  at 


After  the  first  involuntary  expression  of  surprise,  Cathe* 
fine  and  Clifton  exchanged  glances,  and  Catherine  said 
"  Well,  Captain  Fairfax,  as  soou  after  the  marriage  as 


CONCLUSION.  4tf7 

convenient,—  instantly  after  the  ceremony,  if  you  please,— 
you  must  bring  your  bride  down,  and  pass  some  weeks  with 
us." 

"I  thank  you,  Mrs.  Clifton;  I  profoundly  thank  you, 
but  we  are  going  immediately  to  England.  Ida  pines  to  see 
her  father,  who  is  a  country  curate,  in  Devonshire.  She  has 
never  been  reconciled  with  him  since  her  first  unfortunate 
marriage.  I  have  promised  to  take  her  to  him,  and  so  im 
mediately  after  the  ceremony,  we  four — that  is,  Ida,  myself 
and  our  two  little  girls — are  going  to  embark  for  Liverpool." 

"  Well,  altogether,  this  has  put  a  surprise  upon  us,  Frank," 
said  Major  Clifton,  meditatively  running  his  fingers  through 
his  hair  ;  "  but,  when  you  return  you  will  make  us  a  visit. 
By  the  way,  how  long  do  ;you  intend  to  be  absent  ?" 

"  Until  the  spring.  And  now  I  must  really  bid  you 
good-bye,  regretting  very  much  that  I  cannot  carry  you  both 
along  with  me." 

They  shook  hands  cordially,  Clifton  saying — 

»*  Well,  Frank,  our  very  best  wishes  attend  you.  May 
you  have  much  happiness  !" 

Captain  Fairfax  turned  to  take  leave  of  Catherine,  but 
she  said  that  she  would  attend  him  down.  She  left  the  room 
with  him.  And  when  the  door  shut  behind  them,  Clifton 
clasped  his  hands  upon  his  brow  and  closed  his  eyes,  as  in 
deep  thought  or  %  prayer.  When  Kate  re-entered  the  room 
softly,  he  said — 

"  Come  hither,  Catherine  !" 

And  she  came  and  knelt  by  his  side,  and  he  encircled  her 
with  his  arm,  and  drew  her  face  down  to  his  bosom,  and 
raising  bis  eyes  toward  Heaven,  said — 

"  <•  A  wife  is  from  the  Lord  !'  Even  so,  oh,  God  !  How 
shall  I  thank  Thee  ?  Hear  me  consecrate  my  whole  future 
life  to  Thy  service,  in  acknowledgment  of  this,  Thy  gift  ." 


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Ishmael;  or,  In  the  Depths,  being  Self-Made;  or,  Out  of  Depths....  $1  5fc 

Self- Raised;  or,  From  the  Depths.     Sequel  to  "  Ishmael." 1  5$ 

The  Mother-in-Law, $1  50  |  The  Deserted  Wife, 1  50 

The  Fatal  Secret, 1  50  The  Fortune  Seeker, 1  50 

How  He  Won  Her, 1  50  The  Bridal  Eve, 1  50 

Fair  Play, 1  50jTheLost  Heiress, 1  50 

The  Spectre  Lover, 1  50  j  The  Two  Sisters, 1  50 

Victor's  Triumph, 1  50  f  Lady  of  the  Isle, , 1  50 

A  Beautiful  Fiend, 1   50   Prince  of  Darkness, 1  50 

The  Artist's  Love 1   50  j  The  Three  Beauties, 1  50 

A  Noble  Lord, 1  50|Vivia;  or  the  Secret  of  Power,  1  50 

Lost  Heir  of  Linlithgow, 1  50  j  Love's  Labor  Won, 1  50 

Tried  for  her  Life, I  50   The  Gipsy's  Prophecy, 1  50 


Cruel  as  the  Grave, 1  50 

The  Maiden  Widow, 1  50 

The  Family  Doom, 1  50 

The  Bride's  Fate, 1  50 

The  Changed  Brides, 1  50 

Fallen  Pride, 1  50 

The  Widow's  Son, 1  50 

The  Bride  of  Llewellyn, 1  50 

The  Fatal  Marriage, 1   50 


Retribution, 1  50 

The  Christmas  Guest, 1  50 

Haunted  Homestead, 1  50 

Wife's  Victory, 1  50 

Allworth  Abbey, 1   50 

India ;   Pearl  o'f  Pearl  River,..  1  50 

Curse  of  Clifton, 1  5fl 

Discarded  Daughter, 1  50 

The  Mystery  of  Dark  Hollow,..  1  50 


The  Missing  Bride;  or,  Miriam,  the  Avenger, 1  50 

The  Phantom  Wedding;  or,  The  Fall  of  the  House  of  Flint, 1  59 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
Self-Made;  or,  Out  of  the  Depths.     By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  cloth,  price  $1.50  each,  or  $3.00  a  set. 

CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  EXQUISITE  BOOKS. 

Com.fle.tt,    in  twelve,  large  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt  back, 
price  $1.50  each;  or  $18.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

Ernest  Linwood, $1  50  j  Love  after  Marriage, $1  60 

The  Planter's  Northern  Bride,..  1  50    Eoline;  or  Magnolia  Vale,... 


The  Lost  Daughter, 
The  Banished  Son, 
Helen  and  Arthur,. 


Courtship  and  Marriage, 1  50 

Rena;or,  the  Snow  Bird, 1   50 

Marcus  Warland I  50 

Linda;  or,  the  Young  Pilot  of  the  Belle  Creole, 

Robert  Graham;  the  Sequel  to  "Linda;  or  Pilot  of  Belle  Creole,"... 
Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 


t^TAbove  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Price, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa,          (1) 


2    T.  B,  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS 


MRS.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS'  FAVORITE  NOVELS. 

Complete  in  twenti/-three  large,  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  mnroc.co  cloth,  gilt  6acA, 
price  $1.50  each  ;  or  $34.50  a  set,  each  sf.t  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 


.    $1   50  'The  Soldiers'  Orphans,  $1  50 

1  50'  A  Noble  Woman                                   50 

1   50  '  Silent  Stru^-'ies,   50 

The  Old  Countess 

...      1   50{Tha  RfiipRted  Wife  5i 

1  50 

The  Wife's  Secret                                 50 

The  Reigning  Belle 

..   1  50 

Mary  Derwent,  50 

Palaces  and  Prisons,  

1    50 
1  50 

Fashion  and  Famine,  I  50 

The  Curse  of  Gold,  1  50 

1   50 

Mabel's  Mistake,  1   58 

Rubv  Grav's  Strategy,  , 

..   1  50 

The  Old  Homestead,...               ..  1  50 

Doubly  False, 1  50  |  The  Heiress, 1   50  |  The' Gold  Brick,...  1   50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

MISS  ELIZA  A.  DUPUY'S  WONDERFUL  BOOKS. 

Complete  in  fourteen  large  dn.rxip,cimo  volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt  back,  price 
$1.50  each;  or  $21.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

A  New  Way  to  Win  a  Fortune  $1  50  \  Why  Did  He  Marry  Her? $1  50 

The  Discarded  Wife, I  50  I  Who  Shall  be  Victor  ? 1  50 

The  Clandestine  Marriage, 1  50  |  The  Mysterious  Guest, 1  50 

The  Hidden  Sin, 1  50  j  Was  He  Guilty  ? 1  50 

The  Dethroned  Heiress, 1  50  j  The  Cancelled  Will, 1  50 

The  Gipsy's  Warning, 1  50  j  The  Planter's  Daughter, 1  50 

All  For  Love, 1  50  i  Michael  Rudolph, 1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

LIST  OF  THE  BEST  COOK  BOOKS  PUBLISHED, 

Every  housekeeper  should  possess  at  least  one  of  the  following  Cook  Books,  as  the$ 
would,  save  the  price  of  it  in  a  week's  cooking. 

Miss  Leslie's  Cook  Book,  a  Complete  Manual  to  Domestic  Cookery 

in  all  its  Branches.     Paper  cover,  $1.00,  or  bound  in  cloth, $1  50 

The  Queen  of  the  Kitchen,-    or,   The  Southern  Cook  Book.     Con 
taining  1007  Old  Southern  Family  Receipts  for  Cooking,. ..Cloth,     1  50 

Mrs.  Kale's  New  Cook  Book, Cloth,     1  50 

Petersons'  New  Cook  Book, Cloth,     1  50 

Widdifield's  New  Cook  Book, Cloth.     1  50 

Mrs.  Goodfellow's  Cookery  as  it  Should  Be, .........Cloth,     1  50 

The  National  Cook  Book.     By  a  Practical  Housewife, Cloth,     1  50 

The  Young  Wife's  Cook  Book, Cloth,     3  50 

Miss  Leslie's  New  Receipts  for  Cocking, Cloth,     .1  50 

Mrs.  Kale's  Receipts  for  the  Million, Cloth,     1  50 

The  Family  Save-All.    By  author  e*  "National  Cook  Book,"  Cloth,     1  60 
Francatelli's  Modern  Cook  Book.      With  the  most  approved  methods 
of  French,  English,  German,  and  Italian  Cookery.     With  Sixty- 
two  Illustrations.     One  vol.,  600  pages,  bound  in  ruttrocco  cloth,  5  0? 

0ES- Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Priee* 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa- 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.   3 
MRS.  C.  A.  WARFIELD'S  POPULAR  WORKS. 

Complete  in  nine  large  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  gilt  back,  prict 
$1.50  each ;  or  $13.50  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

The  Cardinal's  Daughter,... $1   50  Miriam's  Memoirs, $1   50 

Feme  Fleming, 1  50  Monfort  Hall, 1  60 

i'he  Household  of  Bouverie,....  1   50  Sea  and  Shore, 1  50 

yk  Double  Wedding, 1   50  Hester  Howard's  Temptation,...  1  50 

Lady  Ernestine;  or,  The  Absent  Lord  of  Rocheforte, 1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

FREDRIKA  BREMER'S  DOMESTIC  NOVELS. 

Complete  in  six  large  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $1.50 each; 
or  $9.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

Father  and  Daughter, $1   50    The  Neighbors, $1   50 

The  Four  Sisters, 1  50    The  Home, 1  60 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
Life  in  the  Old  World.     In  two  volumes,  cloth,  price, 3  00 

a.  K.  PHILANDER  DOESTICKS'  FUNNY  BOOKS. 

Complete  in  four  large  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $l.bfl 
each  ;  or  $G.UO  a  set,  eac/t  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

Dotsticks'  Letters, $1  50  I  The  Elephant  Club, $1  50 

Plu-Ri-Bus-Tah, 1  50  |  Witches  of  New  York, 1   50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

JAMES  A.  MAITLAND'S  HOUSEHOLD  STORIES. 

Complete  in  seven  large  duodecimo   volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $1.50 
each  ;  or  $10.50  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

T^e  Watchman, $1  50    Diary  of  an  Old  Doctor, $1   50 

The  Wanderer 1  50    Sartnroe, 1  50 

The  Lawyer's  Story 1   50  I  The  Three  Cousins 1  50 

The  Old  Patroon  ;  or  the  Great  Van  Broek  Property, 1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

T.  ADOLPHUS  TROLLOPE'S  ITALIAN  NOVELS 

Complete  in  seven  large    duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  hack,  price  $1.59 
each ;  or  $10.50  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

The  Sealed  Packet, $1  50  I  Dream  Numbers $1  50 

Garstang  Grange, 1  50  i  Beppo,  the  Conscript, 1   50 

Leonora  Casaloni,...  1  50  |  Gemma, 1  50  |  Marietta 1  56 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morucco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

FRANK  FORESTER'S   SPORTING  SCENES. 

Frank  Forester's  Sporting  Scenes  and  Characters.  By  Henry  William 
Herbert.  A  New,  Revised,  and  Enlarged  Edition,  with  a  Life  of  the 
Author,  a  New  Introductory  Chapter,  Frank  Forester's  Portrait  ani 
Autograph,  with  a  full  length  picture  of  him  in  his  sh»oting  costume, 
Ind  seventeen  other  illustrations,  from  original  designs  by  Darlcy  and 
Frank  For&.)ter.  Two  vols.,  morocco  cloth,  bevelled  boards,  $4.00. 


H^  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Priee* 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


*   T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
WILKIE  COLLINS'  BEST  BOOKS. 

Basil;  or,  The  Crossed  Path..$l   50  |  The  Dead  Secret,     12mo $1  59 

Above  are  each  in  one  large  duodecimo  volume,  bound  in  cloth. 

The  Dead  Secret,  8vo 75  {  The  Queen's  Revenge, 75 

Basil;  or,  the  Crossed  Path, 75    Miss  or  Mrs  ? 50 

Hide  and  Seek, 75  ;  Mad  Monkton, 50 

Afrer  Dark, 75  :  Sights  a-Foot,., 50 

The  Stolen  Mask, 25  |  The  Yellow  Mask,...  25  |  Sister  Rose,...  25 

The  above  books  are  each  issued  in  paper  cover,  in  octavo  form. 

EMERSON  BENNETT'S  INDIAN  STORIES. 

Complete  in  seven    large  duodecimo  •volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $1.5? 
each ;  or  §10.50  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 


The  Border  Rover, $1  50 

Clara  Moreland, 1  50 

The  Orphan's  Trials, 1   50 


Bride  of  the  Wilderness, $1  50 

Ellen  Norbury, 1  50 

Knte  Clarendon,...  ..   1  50 


Viola;  or  Adventures  in  the  Far  South-West, 1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
The  Heiress  of  Bellefonte, 75  |  The  Pioneer's  Daughter, 75 

GREEN'S  WORKS  ON  GAMBLING. 

Complete  in  four  large  duodecimo   volumes,  bound    in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price  $1.50 
each  ,*  or  $6.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 

Gambling  Exposed $1  50  i  The  Reformed  Gambler, $1   50 

The  Gambler's  Life 1  50  |  Secret  Band  of  Brothers, 1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

DOW'S  PATENT  SERMONS. 

Complete  in  four  large  duodecimo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  gilt  back,  price   $1.23 
each  ;  or  $5.00  a  set,  each  set  is  put  up  in  a  neat  box. 


Dow's    Patent     Sermons,    1st 

Series,  cloth, $1  25 

Dow's     Patent     Sermons,    2d 


Dow's     Patent     Sermons,    3d 

Series,  cloth, $1  25 

Dow's     Patent    Sermons,    4th 


Serie?,  cloth 1  25  I      Series,  cloth, 1  25 

Above  are  each  in  cloth,  or  each  one  is  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.00  each. 

GEORGE  SAND'S  GREATEST  NOVELS. 

Consuelo,  12mo.,  cloth, $1   50   Jealousy,  12mo.,  cloth, $1   50 


Countess  of  Rudolstadt, 1   50 


Indiana,  12mo.,  cloth, 1  50 


Above  are  each  published  in  12mo.,  cloth,  gilt  side  and  back. 

Fanchon,  the  Cricket,  paper  cover,  50  cents,  cr  fine  edition,  in  cloth,  1  50 

First  and  True  Love.    With  11  Illustrations.    Paper,  75  cents  ;  cloth,  1  00 

Consuelo.     Paper  cover, 75  I  The  Corsair 50 

Simon.     A  Love  Story, 50  I  The  Last  Aldini, 50 

Ih<3  Countess  of  Rudolstadt.     The  Sequel  to  Consuelo.     Paper  cover,  75 

MISS  BRADDON'S  FASCINATING  BOOKS. 

Aurora  Floyd, 75  I  The  Lawyer's  Secret, 2S 

Aurora  Floyd,  cloth 1  00  |  For  Better,  For  Worse,..., 75 

Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Prio* 
by  T.  B  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


T,  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    5 
CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS.    ILLUSTRATED. 

Tkia  edition  is  printed  from  large  type,  octavo  size,  each  book  being  complete 

in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound  in  Morocco  Cloth,  with  Gilt  Character 

Figure*  on  back,  and  Medallion  on  side,  price  $1.50  each,  or  $27.00  a  net, 

contained   in  eighteen  volumes,  the  whole   containing    near  Six  Hundred 

Illustrations,  by  Cruikshank,  Phiz,  Browne,  Maclise,  and  other  artitta. 

The  Pickwick  Papers.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  32  Illustrations,.$1.50 

Nicholas  Nickleby.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  37  Illustrations,....    1   50 

David  Copperfield.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  8  Illustrations, 1  50 

Oliver  Twirt.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  24  Illustrations,. 
Bleak  House.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  38  Illustrations,. 


Dombey  and  Son.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  38  Illustrations,  ...... 

Sketches  by  "Boz."     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  20  Illustrations,... 
Little  Dorrit.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  38  Illustrations 


Our  Mutual  Friend.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  42  Illustrations  ... 
Great  Expectations.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  34  Illustrations,... 
Lamplighter's  Story.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  7  Illustrations.... 

Barnaby  Radge.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  50  Illustrations  .....  .... 

Martin  Chuzzlewit.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  8  Illustrations,  ...... 

Old  Curiosity  Shop.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  101  Illustrations,. 
Christmas  Stories.     By  Charles  Dickens.     With  12  Illustrations,  ..... 

Dickens'  New  Stories.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  portrait  of  author, 
A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  By  Charles  Dickens.  With  64  Illustrations,. 
Charles  Dickens'  American  Notes  aud  Pic-Nic  Papers,  ................... 


BOOKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

The  following   books  are  each      issued    in    one  large    duodecimo    volume^ 
bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

The  Initials.      A  Love  Story.      By  Baroness  Tautphoeus, $1  5* 

Married  Beneath  Him.     Bv  author  of  "  Lost  Sir  Massingberd," 1  50 

Margaret  Maitland.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant,  author  of  "  Zaidee," 1  50 

Family  Pride.     By  author  of  "  Pique,"  "  Family  Secrets,"  etc 1  60 

The  Autobiography  of  Edward  Wortley  Montagu, 1  50 

The  Forsaken  Daughter.     A  Companion  to   "Linda,"  1  50 

Love  and  Liberty.     A  Revolutionary  Story.     By  Alexander  Dumas,  1  50 

The  Morrisons.     By  Mrs.  Margaret  Hosmer, 1  50 

The  Rich  Husband.     By  author  of  "  George  Goith," 1  50 

The  Lost  Beauty.     By  a  Noted  Lady  of  the  Spanish  Court 1  50 

My  Hero.     By  Mrs.  Forrester.     A  Charming  Love  Story, 1  50 

Tlie  Quaker  Soldier.  A  Revolutionary  Romance.  By  Judge  Jones,....   1  50 

Mauioirs  of  Vidocq,  the  French  Detective.     His  Life  and  Adventures,   1  50 

The  Belle  of  Washington.  With  her  Portrait.   By  Mrs.  N.  P.  Lasselle,    1  50 

High  Life  in  Washington.     A  Life  Picture.     By  Mrs.  N.  P.  Lasselle,  1  50 

Courtship  and  Matrimony.     By  Robert  Morris.     With  a  Portrait,...   1  50 

The  Jealous  Husband.     By  Annette  Marie  Mnillnrd, 1  59 

The  Conscript ;  or,  the  Days  of  Napoleon  1st.     By  Alex.  Dumas,....   1  50 

Cousin  Harry.  By  Mrs.  Grey,  author  of  "  The  Gambler's  WifV,"  etc.   1  60 

Above  books  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

£9*  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Prio* 
by  T.  B  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


6   T.  B,  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

The    following    books   are    each    issued    in    one    large    duodecimo  volume^ 

bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price.  $1.50  each. 

The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo.  By  Durnas.  Illustrated,  paper  $1.00,..$!  50 
The  Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.  Paper  cover,  price  $1.00  j  or  cloth,..  1  50 

Camille;   or,  the  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     By  Alexander  Dumas, I  50 

Love  and  Money.  By  J.  B.  Jones,  author  of  the  "  Rival  Belles,"...  1  50 
The  Brother's  Secret';  or,  the  Count  De  Mara.  By  William  Godwin,  1  5fe 
The  Lost  Love.  By  Mrs.  Oliphant,  author  of  "  Margaret,  Maitland,"  1  50 

The  Bohemians  of  London.     By  Edward  M.  Whitty, 1  50 

Wild  Sports  and  Adventures  in  Africa.     By   Major  W.  C.  Harris,  1  56 

The  Life,  Writings,  and  Lectures  of  the  late  "  Fanny  Fern," 1  50 

The  Life  and  Lectures  of  Lola  Montez,  with  her  portrait, 1  50 

Wild  Southern  Scenes.     By  author  of  "  Wild  Western   Scenes," 1  50 

Currer  Lyle;  or,  the  Autobiography  of  an  Actress.  By  Louise  Reeder.  1  50 

The  Cabin  and  Parlor.     By  J.  Thornton  Randolph.     Illustrated, 1  5ft 

The  Little  Beauty.     A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Grey, 1   50 

Lizzie  Glenn;   or,  the  Trials  of  a  Seamstress.     By  T.  S.  Arthur 1  50 

Lady  Maud  ;  or,  the  Wonder  of  Kingswood  Chase.    By  Pierce  Egan,  1  50 

Wilfred  Montressor  ;   or,  High  Life  in  New  York.     Illustrated 1  50 

Lorriraer  Littlegood,  by  author  "Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship," 1  50 

Married  at  Last. '  A  Love  Story.     By  Annie  Thomas, 1  50 

Shoulder  Straps.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Days  of  Shoddy,"  1  50 
Days  of  Shoddy.  By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "Shoulder  Straps,"  1  50 

The  Coward.     By  Henry  Morford,  author  of  "  Shoulder  Straps," 1  50 

Above  books  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
The  Roman  Traitor.     By  Henry  William  Herbert.    A  Roman  Story,  1  75 
The  Last  Athenian.     By  Victor  Rydberg.     From  the  Swedish, 1  75 

MRS.  HENRY  WOOD'S  BEST  BOOKS,  IN  CLOTH. 

The  following  are  cloth  editions  of  Mrs.  Henry  Wood's  bent  books,  and  they 

are  each  issued  in  large  octavo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  price   $1.75  each. 

Within  the  Maze.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "East  Lynne,"  $1   75 

The  Master  of  Greylands.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood, 1  75 

Dene  Hollow.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of"  Within  the  Maze,"  1  75 
Bessy  Rane.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  The  Channings,"....  1  75 
George  Canterbury's  Will.  By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  "Oswald  Cray,"  1  75 
The  Channings.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  Dene  Hollow,"...  1  75 

Roland  Yorke.     A  Sequel  to  ''  The  Channings."    By  Mrs.  WTood, 1  75 

Shadow  of  Ashlydyatt.  By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  of  "  Bessy  Rane,"....  1  75 
Lord  Oakburn's  Daughters;  or  The  Earl's  Heirs.  By  Mrs.  Wood,...  1  75 
Verner's  Pride.  By  Airs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  The  Channings,"  1  75 
The  Castle's  Heir;  or  Lady  Adelaide's  Oath.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  1  75 
Oswald  Cray.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  *'  Roland  Yorke,"....  1  76 

Squire  Trevlyn's  Heir;  or  Trevlyn  Hold.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood, 1  75 

The  Red  Court  Farm.  By  Mrs.  Wood,  author  of  "  Verner's  Pride,"  1  75 
Elster's  Folly.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "  Castle's  Heir,"...  1  75 
St.  Martin's  Eve.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "Dene  Hollow/'  1  75 
Mildred  Arkell.  By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood,  author  of  "East  Lynne," 1  76 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.    7 
ALEXANDER  DUMAS'  ROMANCES,  IN  CLOTH. 

The  following  are  cloth  editions  of  Alexander  Dumas'  work*,  and  they  art 

each  issued  in   large  octavo  volumes,  bound  in  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 
The  Three  Guardsmen  ;  or.  The  Three  Mousquetaires.    By  A.  Dumas,Sl  50 
Twenty  Years  After;  or  the  "Second  Series  of  Three  Guardsmen,"... 
Bragelonne;   Son  of  Athos  ;  or  "  Third  Series  of  Three  Guardsmen," 
The  Iron  Mask  ;  or  the  "  Fourth  Series  of  The  Three  Guardsmen,".... 
Louise  La  Valliere.      The  Sequel  to   "The   Iron  Mask."     Being  the 


Fifth  Book  and  End  of  the  Three  Guardsmen  Series,". 


N 

50 
5U 

50 
51) 
50 
50 
50 
50 

50 
50 
50 


The  Memoirs  of  a  Physician;  or,  Joseph  Balsatno.     Illustrated, 

Queen's  Necklace;  or  "  Second  Series  of  Memoirs  of  a  Physician," 
Six  Years  Later;  or  the  "  Third  Series  of  Memoirs  of  a  Physician," 
Countess  of  Charny;  or  "Fourth  Series  of  Memoirs  of  a  Physician," 
Andree  De  Taverney ;  or  "  Fifth  Series  of  Memoirs  of  a  Physician," 
The  Chevalier.  The  Sequel  to  "Andree  De  Taverney."  Being  the 

"Sixth  Book  and  End  of  the  Memoirs  of  a  Physician  Series," 

The  Adventures  of  a  Marquis.     By  Alexander  Dumas, 

The  Forty-Five  Guardsmen.     By  Alexander  Dumas.     Illustrated,... 
Diana  of  Meridor,  or  Lady  of  Monsoreau.     By  Alexander  Dumas,...  1  50 
The  Iron  Hand.     By  Alex.  Dumas,  author  "Count  of  Monte-Cristo,"  1  50 

Camille;  or  the  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     (La  Dame  aux  Camelias,) 1   50 

The  Conscript.     A  novel  of  the  Days  of  Napoleon  the  First, 1  50 

Love  and  Liberty.     A  novel  of  the  French  Revolution  of  1792-1793,  1  50 

THE  "  COUNT  OF  If  ONTE-CRISTO  SEBIES,"  IN  CLOTH. 
The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo.     By  Alexander  Dumas.     Illustrated,...  1  50 

Edmond  Dantes.      The  Sequel  to  the  "  Count  of  Monte-Cristo," „   I  25 

Monte-Cristo's  Daughter.     Sequel  to  and  end  of  "  Edmond  Dantes    .  1 
The  Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.     The  Companion  to  "Monte-Cristo,^  1 
The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo.    Continuation  of  "Count  of  Monte-Cristo,     1  ^ 
The  Son  of  Monte-Cristo.       The  Sequel  to  "Wife  of  Monte-Cristo,'    1  25 

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The  Lawrence  Speaker.  A  Selection  of  Literary  Gems  in  Poetry  and 
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8     T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST   AUTHORS. 

TJie  following  books  are  each  issued  in  one  large  octavo  volume,  bound  in 
cloth,  at  $1.50  each,  or  each  one  is  done  up  in  paper  cover,  at  $1.00  each. 

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Mysteries  of  Paris;  and  its  Sequel,  Gerolsfcein.     By  Eugene  Sue,....  1  50 

Martin,  the  Foundling.     By  Eugene  Sue.     Full  of  Illustrations, 1  50 

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The  following  books  are  each  issued  in  one  largz  octavo  volume,  bound  in 

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Washington  and  His  Generals.     By  George  Lippard, 2  00 

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Blanche  of  Brandywine.     By  George   Lippard, 2  00 

Paul  Ardenheim;  the  Monk  of  Wissahickon.  By  George  Lippard,.  2  00 
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Arthur  O'Leary.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,  50 

Con  Cregan.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,  50 

Horace  Templeton.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,  50 

Kate  O'Donoghue.     By  Charles  Lever, Cloth,        SO 

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Col.  Thorpe's  Scenes  in  Arkansaw.     With  16  Illustrations, 1  50 

High  Life  in  New  York,  by  Jonathan  'Slick.     AVith  Illustration!?,....  1  50 

Piney  Wood's  Tavern;  or,  Sam  Slick  in   Texas.     Illustrated, 1  50 

Humors  of  Falconbridge.     By  J.  F.  Kelley.     With   Illustrations, ...  1  50 

Simon  Suggs'  Adventures  and  Travels.     With    17  Illustrations, 1  50 

The  Big  Bear's  Adventures  and  Travels.   With  18  Illustrations, 1  50 

Judge  Haliburton's  Yankee  Stories.      Illustrated, 1  50 

Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship  and  Marriage,     illustrated, 1  50 

Lorriraer  Littlegood.     Illustrated.     By  author  of  "  Frank  Fairletjh,"  1  50 

Nenl's  Charcoal  Sketches.      By  Joseph   C.  Neal.     21  Illustrations,...  2  50 

Major  Jones's  Courtship.    21  Illustrations.    Paper,  75  cents,  cloth, 1  00 

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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS,   9 


STANDARD  NOVELS,  BY  BEST  WRITERS. 

Twelve  Years  of  My  Life.     By  Mrs.  B.  Beaumont,  cloth, $]  50 

Iphigenia.    A  Woman  of  Progress.    By  Hugo  Furst.    Paper  75,  cloth,  1  25 

Consuelo.     By  George  Sand.     One  volume,  12ino.,  bound  in  cloth,...  1  50 

The  Countess  of  Rudolstadt.     Sequel  to  "Consuelo."     12rno.,  cloth,..  50 

Indiana.     A  Novel.     By  George  Sand,  author  of  "  Consuelo,"  elotlt,  50 

Jenlousy  ;  or,  Teverino.    By  George  Sand,  author  "  Consuelo,"  cloth,  50 

Fanchon,  the  Cricket;  or,  La  Petite  Fadette.    By  George  Sand,  cloth,  50 

Tne  Dead  Secret.     By  Wilkie  Collins,  author  of'"  Basil,"  cloth, 50 

The  Crossed  Path;  or  Basil.     By  Wilkie  Collins,  cloth, 50 

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The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens.     By  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  cloth,  50 

The  Lamplighter's  Story,  with  others.     By  Charles  Dickens,  cloth,...  50 

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Lord  Montagu's  Page.    By  G.  P.  R.  James,  author  "  Cavalier,"  cloth,  50 

The  Earl  of  Mayfield.     By  Thomas  P.  May,  cloth,  black  and  gold,..  50 

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Sam  Slick,  the  Clockuiaker.     By  Judge  Haliburton.     Illustrated,...  50 

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without  a  Teacher.     By  A.  H.  Monteith.     One  volume,  cloth 2  00 

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10  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
NEW  AND  GOOD  BOOKS  BY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

Beautiful  Snow,  and  Other  Poems.  New  Illustrated  Edition.  By  J.  W. 
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T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.   II 
BOOKS  IN  SETS  BY  THE  BEST  AUTHORS. 

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ALEXANDER  DUMAS'  ROMANCES,  IN  PAPER. 

Count  of  Monte-Cristo,... $1  00  ,  Memoirs  of  a  Physician;    or, 

Edmond  Dantes, 75  j      Joseph  Balsumo, $1   00 

The  Three  Guardsmen, 75    Queen's  Necklace, 1   00 

Twenty  Years  After, 75    Six  Years  Later, 1   00 

Bragelonne, 75  j  Countess  of  Charny, 1  00 

The  Iron  Mask, 1  00  |  Andree  de  Taverney,. 

Louise  La  Valliere, 1  00  I  The  Chevalier,. 


Diana  of  Meridor, 1   00  i  Forty-five  Guardsmen, 

Adventures  of  a  Marquis, 1  00  |  The  Iron  Hand 


Love  and  Liberty,  (1792-'93)..  1  00  j  The  Conscript, 

Camiile;  or,  The  Fate  of  a  Coquette,  (La  Dame  Aux  Camelias,) 

Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.    The  companion  to  Count  of  Monte-Cristo 
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The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo 75  i  Isabel  of  Bavaria, 75 

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Monte-Cristo's  Daughter 75  |  Annette;  or,  Lady  of  Pearls,...  75 

The  Mohicans  of  Paris, 75  j  Twin  Lieutenant?, 50 

The  Horrors  of  Paris, 75  ;  George;   or,  Isle  of  France, 50 

The  Fallen  Angel, 75  \  Madame  de  Chamblay, 50 

Felina  de  Chambure, 75  j  The  Corsicnn  Brothers, 50 

Sketches  in  France, 75    The  Marriage  Verdict,. 50 

The  Count  of  Moret, 50  |  The  Black  Tulip, 50  |  Buried  Alive, 25 


@m-  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  Receipt  of  Retail'Price, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


12  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
EMILE  ZOLA'S  NEW  REALISTIC  BOOKS. 

Nana  !     Sequel  to  L'Assommoir.     By  Emile  Zola.     Nana  !     Price  75  cents 

in  paper  cover,  or  $1.00  in  morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold.     Nana  ! 
L'Assommoir;  or,  Nana's  Mother.     By  Emile  Zola.     The  Greatest  Novel 

over  printed.     Price  75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.00  in  cloth. 
The  Shop  Girls  of  Paris.     With  their  daily  Life  in  Large  Dry  Goods  Stores. 

By  Emile  Zola,  author  of  "  Nana."     Paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 
Nana's  Brother.     Son  of  "  Gervaise,"  of  "  L'Assommoir."    By  Emile  Zola, 

author  of  "  Nana."     Paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Joys  of  Life.      By  Emile  Zola,  author  of  "  Nana,"  "  Pot-Bouille,"  etc. 

Price  75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
Her  Two  Husbands;   and  Other  Novelettes.     By  Emile  Zola.     Price  75 

cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
Pot-Bouille.     By  Emile  Zota,  author  of  "Nana."     "Pot-Bouille."     Price 

75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
Nana's  Daughter.     A   Continuation  of  and  Sequel  to  Emile  Zola's  Great 

Realistic  Novel  of  "  Nana."     Price  75  cents  in  paper,  or  $1.00  in  cloth. 
The  Mysteries  of  the  Court  of  Louis  Napoleon.      By  Emile  Zola.     Price 

75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
The  Girl  in  Scarlet;  or,  the  Loves  of  Silvere  and  Miette.     By  Emile  Zola. 

Price  75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  cloth. 
Albirie;  or,  The  Abbe's  Temptation.     (La  Faute  De  L'Abbe  Mouret.)     By 

Emile  Zola.     Price  75  cents  in  paper,  or  $1.25  in  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
La  Belle  Lisa;  or,  The  Paris  Market  Girls.     By  Emile  Zola.     Price  75 

cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
Ilelene,    a    Love    Episode;     or,    Une    Page    D' Amour.     Bij   Emile  Zola. 

Price  75  cents  in  p;iper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
A  Mad  Love;  or  The  Abbe  and  His  Court.     By  Emile  Zola.     Price  75 

cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
Claude's  Confession.     By  Emile  Zola,  author  of  "  Nana,"  "  L'Assommoir," 

"  HSlene,"  etc.     Price  75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  cloth. 
The  Mysteries  of  Marseilles.     By  Emile  Zola,  author  of  "  Nana."     Price 

75  cents  in  paper  cover,  or  $1.25  in  cloth,  black  and  gold. 
Magdalen  Ferat.     By  Emile  Zola.     Paper,  75  cents;    cloth,  $1.25. 
In  the  Whirlpool.     By  Emile  Zola.     Paper,  75  cents ;   cloth,  $1.25. 
The~re-se  Raquin.     By  Emile  Zola.     Paper,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 

MRS.  SOUTHWORTH'S  WORKS  IN  CHEAP  FORM. 

tshmael;  or,  in  the  Depths — being  "Self-Made;  or,  Out  of  the  Depths/ 

Self-Raised;  or,  From  the  Depths.     Sequel  to  "Ishmael." 

Tlie  Bride  of  an   Evening;   or,  The  Gipsy's  Prophecy. 

The  Missing  Bride;  or,  Mirifim,  the  Avenger.  The  Bridal  Eve. 

The  Curse  of  Clifton;  or,  The  Widowed  Bride.        The  Bride's  Fate. 

The  Changed  Brides;  or,  Winning  Her  Way.  The  Fatal  Marriage. 

Abtoe  are  cheap  editions,  in  paper  cover,  price  75  cents  each. 
The  Red  Hill  Tragedy.  Sybil  Brothertoa, 

Above  are  cheap  editions^  in  paper  cover,  price  50  cents  each. 
Fashion  and  Famine.     By  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens.     Cheap  edition.     75  cts. 


All  Books  published  by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
will  be  sent  to  any  one,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Eetail  Frioe. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  13 
PETERSONS'  SQUARE  12mo.  SERIES. 

The  following  books  are  printed  on  tinted  paper,  and  are  issued  in  uniform 

style,  in  square  12mo.  form.     Price  50  Cents  in  Paper,  or  $1.00  til  Cloth. 
Helen's  Babies.     By  John  Habberton.      With  an  Illustrated  Cover. 
Mrs.  Mayburn's  Twins.     By  John  Habberton,  author  of  Helen's  Babiei. 
Bertha's  Baby.     Equal  to  "  Helen's  Babies."     With  Illustrated  Cover. 
The  Annals  of  a  Baby.     Baby's   First   Gifts,  etc.     By  Mrs.  Stebbins. 
Bessie's   Six   Lovers.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Peterson. 
Father  Tom  and  the  Pope ;  or,  A  Night  at  the  Vatican.     Illustrated. 
Not  His  Daughter.     A  Society  Novel.     By  Will  Herbert. 
A  Bohemian  Tragedy.     A  Novel  of  New  York  Life.     By  Lily  Curry. 
Little  Heartsease.      Equal  to  Rhoda  Broughton's.     By  Annie  L.  Wright, 
Two  Kisses.     A  Bright  and  Snappy  Love  Story.     By  Hawley  Smart. 
Her  Second  Love.     A  Thrilling  Liie-like  and  Captivating  Love  Story. 
A  Parisian  Romance.      Octave  Feuilfet's  New  Book,  just  dramatized. 
Fanchon,  the  Cricket ;  or,  La  Petite  Fadette.     By  George  Sand. 
Two  Ways  to  Matrimony ;  or,  Is  it  Love?   or,  False  Pride. 
£!he  Matchmaker.     By  Beatrice  Reynolds.     A  Charming  Love  Story. 
1'he  Story  of  Elizabeth.    By  Miss  Thackeray,  daughter  of  W.  M.Thackeray. 
The  Amours  of  Philippe;  or,  Philippe's  Love  Affairs,  by  Octave  Feuillet. 
Rancy   Cottem's   Courtship.     By  author  of  "  Major  Jones's  Courtship." 
A  Woman's  Mistake;  or,  Jacques  de  TreVannes.     A  Charming  Love  Story. 
The  Days  of  Madame  Pompadour.    A  Romance  of  the  Reign  of  Louis  XV. 
The  Little  Countess.     By  Octave  Feuillet,  author  of  "  Count  De  Camors." 
The  American  L'Assommoir.     A  parody  on  Zola's  "  L'Assommoir." 
Hyde  Park  Sketches.     A  very  humorous  and  entertaining  work. 
Miss  Margery's  Roses.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     By  Robert  C.  Meyers. 
Madeleine.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     Jules  Sandeau's  Prize  Novel. 
Cnrraen.     By  Prosper  Merimee.     Book  the  Opera  was  dramatized  from. 
That  Girl  of  Mine.     By  the  author  of  "  That  Lover  of  Mine." 
That  Lover  of  Mine.     By  the  author  of  "  That  Girl  of  Mine." 
The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo.     Cheap  edition,  paper  cover.     Price  50  cents. 

PETERSONS'  SQUARE  12mo.  SERIES. 

Edmond  Dantes.     Sequel  to  Alexander  Dumas'  "  Count  of  Monte-Cristo." 
Monte-Cristo's  Daughter.     Sequel  to  and  end  of  "  Edmond  Dantes." 
The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo.     Continuation  of  "  Count  of  Monte-Cristo." 
The  Son  of  Monte-Cristo.     The  Sequel  to  "  The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo." 
Camille;  or,  The  Fate  of  a  Coquette.     (La  Dame  Aux  Camdias.) 
Married  Above  Her.     A  Society  Romance.     By  a  Lady  of  New  York. 
The  Man  from  Texas.     A  Powerful  Western  Romance,  full  of  adventure* 
Erring.  Yet  Noble.     A  Book  of  Women  and  for  Women.     By  I.  G.  Reed. 
The  Fair  Enchantress;  or,  How  She  Won  Men's  Hearts.    By  Miss  Keller. 

Above  are  in  paper  cover,  price  75  cents  each,  or  $1.25  each  in  cloth. 
Harry  Coverdale's  Courtship  and  Marriage.  Paper,  75  cts.;  cloth,  $1.50. 
Those  Pretty  St.  George  Girls.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.00. 
Vidocq!  The  French  Detective.  Illustrated.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  Black  Venus.  By  Adolphe  Betot.  Paper  cover,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 
La  Grande  Plorine.  By  Adolphe  Bclnt.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  Stranglers  of  Paris.  By  Adolphe  Belot.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 

All  Books  published  by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
will  be  sent  to  any  one,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Price. 


14  T,  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
PETERSONS'  SQUARE  12mo.  SERIES. 

Major  Jones's  Courtship.  21  Illustrations.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00, 
Major  Jones's  Georgia  Scenes.  12  Illustrations.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Major  Jones's  Travels.  8  Illustrations.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00 
Simon  Suggs'  Adventures.  10  Illustrations.  Paper,  75  cts.,  cloth,  $1.00 
Louisiana  Swamp  Doctor.  6  Illustrations.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00 
The  Initials.  'A.  Z.'  By  Baroness  Tautphoeus.  Paper,  75  cts.,  cloth,  $1.25 
Indiana  !  A  Love  Story.  By  George  Sand.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00, 
Oonsuelo.  By  George  Sand.  Paper  cover,  Price  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.00. 
Countess  of  Rudolstadt.  Sequel  to  Conanelo.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Mark  Maynard's  Wife.  By  Frankie  F.  King.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Master  of  L'Etrange.  By  Eugene  Hall.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Dora's  Device.  By  George  R.  Gather.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Snob  Papers.  A  Book  Full  of  Roaring  Fun.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Ivaran  Kringle's  Courtship  and  Journal.  Illustrated.  Cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Prairie  Flower,  and  Leni-Leoti.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  clotfi,  $1.00. 
Monsieur,  Madame,  and  the  Baby.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
L'Evangeliste.  By  Alphonse  Daudet.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Duchesse  Undine.  By  H.  Penn  Diltz.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Hidden  Record.  By  E.  W.  Blaisdell.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
A  Russian  Princess.  By  Emmanuel  Gonzales.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
A  Woman's  Perils  ;  or,  Driven  from  Home.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
A  Fascinating  Woman.  By  Edinond  Adam.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
La  Faustin.  By  Edinond  de  Goncourt.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Monsieur  Le  Ministre.  By  Jules  Claretie.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Winning  the  Battle ;  or,  One  Girl  in  10,000.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
A  Child  of  Israel.  By  Edouard  Cadol.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  Exiles.  The  Russian  '  Robinson  Crusoe.'  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
My  Hero.  A  Love  Story.  By  Mrs.  Forrester.  Paper,  75  cts.,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Paul  Hart ;  or,  The  Love  of  His  Life.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Mildred's  Cadet;  or,  Hearts  and  Bell-Buttons.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Bellah.  A  Love  Story.  By  Octave  Feuillet.  Pnper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Sabine's  Falsehood.  A  Love  Story.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Linda;  or,  The  Young  Pilot  of  the  Belle  Creole.  Paper,  75  cts.,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Woman  in  Black.  Illustrated  Cover.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
Madame  Bovary.  By  Gustavo  Flaubert.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  Count  de  Camors.  By  Octave  Feuillet.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth, _$1. 25. 
How  She  Won  Him  !  A  Love  Story.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  cloth, '$1.25. 
Angle's  Fortune.  By  Andr6  Theuriet.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
St.  Maur;  or,  An  Earl's  Wooing.  Paper  cover,  price  75  cents,  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Prince  of  Breffny.  By  Thomas  P.  May.  Paper,  75  cents,  cloth,  SI. 50. 
The  Earl  of  Mayfield.  By  Thomas  P.  May.  Paper,  75  cent?,  cloch,  $1.00. 

MRS.  E.  H.  BURNETT'S  NOVELLETTES. 

Kathleen.     A  Love  Story.     By  author  of  "That  Lass  o'  Lowries." 
Theo.     A  Love  Story.     By  author  of  "  Kathleen,"  "  Miss  Crespigny,"  eta, 
Lindsay's  Luck.     A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett. 
Pretty  Polly  Pemberton.     By  author  of  "  Kathleen,"  "  Theo,"  etc. 
A  Quiet  Life.     By  Mrs.  Burnett,  .author  of  "  That  Lass  o'  Lowries." 
Miss  Crespigny,  also  Jarl's  Daughter.     By  Mrs.  Burnett. 

Above  are  in  paper  cover,  price  50  cents  each,  or  in  cloth,  at  $1.00  each. 

All  Books  published  by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
will  be  sent  to  any  one,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Prwe. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  15 


HENRY  GR^VILLE'S  CHARMING  NOVELS. 

Zitka;  or,  The  Trials  of  Raissa.  A  Russian  Love  Story,  from  which  the 
Play  of  "  Zitka,"  now  being  performed  to  crowded  houses  at  all  the  prin. 
cipal  theatres  in  the  United  States,  was  dramatized.  By  Henry  Greville. 

The  Princess  Ogherof.     A  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Above  are  in  paper  cover,  price  75  cents  each,  or  in  cloth,  at  $1.00  each. 

Dosia.     A  Russian  Story.      By  Henry  GrevUle,  author  of  "  Markof." 
Sav61i's  Expiation.     A  Powerful  Russian  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Tania's  Peril.     A  Russian  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Sonia.     A  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville,  author  of  "Dosia." 
Lucie  Rodey.     A  Charming  Society  Novel.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Bonne-Marie.     A  Tale  of  Normandy  and  Paris.     By  Henry  Gre"ville. 
Xenie's  Inheritance.     A  Tale  of  Russian  Life.     By  Henry  Gre"ville. 
Dournof.     A  Russian  Story.     By  Henry  Greville,  author  of  "Dosia." 
Main'zelle  Eugenie.     A  Russian  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Gabrielle;  or,  The  House  of  Maureze.     By  Henry  Greville. 
A  Friend;  or,  "  L'Atui."     By  Henry  Greville,  author  of  "Dosia." 

Above  are  in  paper  cover,  price  50  cents  each,  or  in  cloth,  at  $1.00  each. 
Marrying  Off  a  Daughter.     A  Love  Story.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Sylvie's  Betrothed.     A  Charming  Novel.     By  Henry  Greville. 
Philomene's  Marriages.     A  Lovo  Story.     By  Henry   Greville. 
Guy's  Marriage;    also    Pretty  Little  Countess  Zina.     By  Henry  Griville. 

Above  are  in  paper  cover,  price  75  cents  each,  or  in  cloth,  at  $1.25  each. 
Markof,  the  Russian  Violinist.     Paper  cover,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.50. 

THE  "COUNT  OF  MONTE-CRISTO  SERIES." 

The  Count  of  Monte-Cristo.  Illustrated.  Paper  cover,  $1.00,  cloth,  $1.50. 
Edmond  Dantes.  Sequel  to  "  Monte-Cristo."  Paper,  75  cts.,  cloth,  $1.25. 
Monte-Cristo's  Daughter.  Paper  cover,  75  cents;  cloth,  $1.25. 

The  Countess  of  Monte-Cristo.  Paper  cover,  $1.00,  morocco  cloth,  $1.50. 
The  Wife  of  Monte-Cristo.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  morocco  cloth,  $1.25. 
The  Son  of  Monte-Cristo.  Paper  cover,  75  cents,  morocco  cloth,  $1.25. 

BOOKS  BY  AUTHOR  OF  'A  HEART  TWICE  WON.' 

A  Heart  Twice  Won;  or,  Second  Love.  A  Love  Story.  By  Mrs.  Eliza^ 
beth  Van  Loon.  Morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold.  Price  $1.50. 

Under  the  Willows;  or,  The  Three  Countesses.  By  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Van 
Loon,  author  of  "A  Heart  Twice  Won."  Cloth,  and  gold.  Price  $1.50. 

The  Shadow  of  Hampton  Mead.  A  Charming  Story.  By  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Van  Loon,  author  of  "A  Heart  Twice  Won."  Cloth.  Price  $1.50. 

Tho  Mystery  of  Allanwold.  A  Thrilling  Novel.  By  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Van 
Loon,  author  of  "A  Heart  Twice  Won."  Cloth,  and  gold.  Price  $1.50. 

The  Last  Athenian.  By  Victor  Rydberg.  Translated  from  the  Swedish. 
Large  12mo.  volume,  near  600  pages,  cloth,  black  and  gold,  price  $1.75. 

The  Roman  Traitor;  or,  The  Days  of  Cicero,  Cato,  and  Cataline.  A  Tale 
oj  the  Republic.  By  Henry  William  Herbert.  Morocco  cloth,  price  $1.75. 

Francatelli's  Modern  Cook  Book  for  1887.  Enlarged  Edition.  With  the 
most  approved  methods  of  French,  English,  German,  and  Italian  Cook 
ery.  With  62  Illustrations.  600  pages,  morocco  cloth,  price  $5.00. 

All  Books  published  by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa., 
will  be  sent  to  any  one,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Eetail  Price. 


16  T.  B,  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS, 
PETERSONS'  "  DOLLAR  SERIES." 

Petersons'  "Dollar  Series  "  of  Good  Novels  are  the  cheapest  'books  at  One  Dollar  each 
ever  published.  They  are  all  issued  in  uniform  style,  in  \'2mo.  form,  and  are 
bound  in  red,  blue  and  tan  vellum,  with  gold  and  black  sides  and  back,  and  are  sold 
at  the  low  price  of  One  Dollar  each,  while  they  are  as  large  as  any  books  published 
at  $1.75  and  $2.00  each.  The  following  have  already  been  issued  in  this  series: 

A  Woman's  Thoughts  About  Women.     B}'  Miss  Mulock. 

Two  Ways  to  Matrimony;  or,  Is  It  Love,  or,  False  Pride? 

The  Story  of  "  Elizabeth."     By  Miss  Thackeray. 

Flirtations  in  Fashionable  Life.     By  Catharine  Sinclair. 

Lady  Edith;   or,  Alton  Towers.     A  very  charming  and  fascinating  work. 

Myrtle  Lawn  ;  or,  True  Love  Never  Did  Run  Smooth.     A  Love  Story. 

The  Matchmaker.     A  Society  Novel.     By  Beatrice  Reynolds. 

Rose  Douglas,  the  Bonnie  Scotch  Lass.     A  Companion  to  "  Family  Pride.'* 

The  Earl's  Secret.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     By  Miss  Pardoe. 

Family  Secrets.     A  Companion  to  "Family  Pride,"  and  very  fascinating. 

The  Macdermots  of  Ballycloran.     An  Exciting  Novel,  by  A.  Trollope. 

The  Family  Save-All.     With  Economical  Receipts  for  the  Household. 

Self-Sacrifice.     A  Charming  Work.     By  author  of  ''Margaret  Maitland." 

The  Pride  of  Life.     A  Love  Sfory.     By  Lady  Jane  Scott. 

The  Rival  Belles;  or,  Life  in  Washington.  Author  "  Wild  Western  Scenes." 

The  Clyffards  of  Clyffe.     By  James  Payn,  author  "  Lost  Sir  Massingberd." 

The  Orphan's  Trials;  or,  Alone  in  a  Great  City.     By  Emerson  Bennett. 

The  Heiress  of  Sweetwater.    A  Love  Story,  abounding  with  exciting  scenes. 

The  Refugee.    A  delightful  book,  full  of  food  for  laughter,  and  information. 

Lost  Sir  Massingberd.    A  Love  Story.     By  author  of  "  Clyffards  of  Clyffe." 

Cora  Belmont;  or,  The  Sincere  Lover.     A  True  Story  of  the  Heart. 

The  Lover's  Trials  ;  or,  The  Days  Before  the  Revolution.    By  Mrs.  Denison. 

My  Son's  Wife.     A  strong,  bright,  interesting  and  charming  Novel. 

Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag.     By  Mrs.  Caroline  Lee  Hentz,  author  of  "  Rena." 

Saratoga!  and  the  Famous  Springs.     An  Indian  Tale  of  Frontier  Life. 

Country  Quarters.     A  Charming  Love  Story.     By  Countess  of  Blessington. 

Self-Love.     A  Book  for  Young  Ladies,  with  prospects  in  Life  contrasted. 

The  Devoted  Bride;  or,  Faith  and  Fidelity.     A  Love  Story. 

Colley  Gibber's  Life  of  Edwin  Forrest,  with  Reminiscences  of  the  Actor. 

Outof  the  Depths.     The  Story  of  a  Woman's  Life,  and  a  Woman's  Book. 

The  Queen's  Favorite  :  or,  The  Price  of  a  Crown.     A  Romance  of  Don  Juan. 

Six  Nighty  with  the  Washingtonians.     By  T.  S.  Arthur.     Illustrated. 

The  Cuquette;  or,  the  Life  and  Letters  of  the  beautiful  Eliza  Wharton. 

Harem  Life  in  Egypt  and  Constantinople.     By  Emmeline  Lott. 

The  Old  Patroon;  or,  The  Great  Van  Broek  Property,  by  J.  A.  Maitland. 

Nana.     By  Emile  Zola.  Gambling  Exposed.     By  J.  H.  Greeu. 

L'Assommoir.     By  Emile  Zola.  Woodburn  Grange.     By  W.  Howitt. 

Dream  Numbers.     By  Trollope.  The  Cavalier.     By  G.  P.  R.  James. 

A  Lonely  Life.  Across  the  Atlantic. 

The  Beautiful  Widow.  Shoulder-Straps.      By  H.  Morford. 

Love  and  Duty.     By  Mrs.  Hubback.     The  Brothers'  Secret. 

The  Heiress  in  the  Family.  The  Rector's  Wife. 

Woman's  Wrong.     A  Woman's  Book.  The  Man  of  the  World. 

^*  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Price, 
by  T.  B  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Fa. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  17 
PETERSONS'  "STERLING  SERIES." 

"Petersons'  Sterling  Series  "  of  New  and  Good  Books  are  the  Cheapest  Novel* 
in  the  world.  They  arc  all  waned  in  uniform  style,  in  octavo  form,  jjrict 
One  Dollar  each,  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  black  and  gold  ;  or  75  cents  each 
in  paper  cover,  with  the  edges  cut  open  all  around.  The  following 
celebrated  works  have  already  been  issued  in  this  series: 

Corinne;  or,  Italy.     By  Madame  De  Stael.     This  is  a  Wonderful  Book. 

The  Man  in  Black;  or  the  Days  of  Queen  Anne.     By  G.  P.  R.  James. 

Eiina,;  or,  Missing  Since  Midnight.    A  Love  Story.    By  Mrs.  Henry  Wocd. 

Cyrilla.     A  Love  Story.     By  the  author  of  "  The  Initials." 

Popping  the  Question;  or,  Belle  of  the  Ball.     By  author  of  "The  Jilt." 

Marrying  for  Money.     A  Charming  Love  Story  in  Real  Life. 

Aurora  Floyd.     An  Absorbing  Love  Story.     By  Miss  M.  E.  Braddon. 

Salathiel;  or,  The  Wandering  Jew.     By  Rev.  "George  Croly. 

Harry  Lorrequer.     Full  of  Fun,  Frolic  and  Adventure.     By  Charles  Lever. 

Charles  O'M alley,  the  Irish  Dragoon.     Charles  Lever's  Greatest  Novel. 

The  Flirt.     A  Fashionable  Novel.     By  author  of  "  The  Gambler's  Wife." 

The  Dead  Secret.     Wilkie  Collins'  Greatest  Work. 

Thackeray's  Irish  Sketch  Book,  with  Thirty-eight  Illustrations. 

The  Wife's  Trials.     Dramatic  and  Powerful.     By  Miss  Julia  Pardoe. 

The  Man  With  Five  Wives.     By  Alexander  Dumas,  author  of  "  Camille." 

Pickwick  Abroad.     Illustrated  by  Cruikshank.     By  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds. 

First  and  True  Love.     Beautifully  rich  in  style.     By  George  Sand. 

The  Mystery;  or,  Anne  Hereford.     A  Love  Story.     By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

The  Steward.     Illustrated.     By  the  author  of  "Valentine  Vox." 

Basil :  or,  The  Crossed  Path.     By  Wilkie  Collins.     Told  with  great  power. 

The  Jealous  Wife.     Great  originality  of  plot.     By  Miss  Julia  Pardoe. 

Sylvester  Sound.     By  the  author  of  "  Valentine  Vox,  the  Ventriloquist." 

Whitefriars;  or,  The  Days  of  Charles  the  Second.     Equal  to  "Ivanhoe." 

Webster  and  Hayne's  Speeches  on  Foot's  Resolution  &  Slavery  Compromise. 

The  Rival  Beauties.     A  Beautiful  Love  Story.     By  Miss  Pardoe. 

The  Confessions  of  a  Pretty  Woman.     By  Miss  Julia  Pardoe. 

Flirtations  in  America;  or,  High  Life  in  New  York. 

The  Coquette.     A  Powerful  and  Amusing  Tale  of  Love  and  Pride. 

The  Latimer  Family.  T.  S.  Arthur's  Great  Temperance  Story,  illustrated. 
Above  books  are  $1.00  each  in  cloth,  or  75  cents  each  in  paper  cover. 

The  Creole  Beauty.     By  Mrs.  Sarah  A.  Dorsey.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

Agnes  Graham.     By  Mrs.  Sarah  A.  Dorsey.     Price  Fifty  cents. 

HENRY  MORFORD'S  AMERICAN  NOVELS. 

Shoulder-Straps, $1  50  I  The  Days  of  Shoddy.     A  His- 

The  Coward, 1  501      tory  of  the  late  War, $1  50 

Above  are  each  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 

THE    SHAKSPEARE    NOVELS. 

Shnkspeare  and  his  Friends,. ..$1  00  I  The  Secret  Passion, ,$1  08 

The  Youth  of  Shakspeare, 1  00  I 

Above  three  Books  are  also  bound  in  morocco  cloth.     Price  $1.25  each. 


Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Eetail  Pricet 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


20  T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
CHARLES  LEVER'S  GREAT  WORKS. 


Charles  O'Malley, 75 

Harry  Lorrequer, 75 

Jack   Hinton, 75 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours,.. 75 

Knight  of  Gwynne, ...  75 


Arthur  O'Leary, 7i 

Con  Cregan, 75 

Davenport  Dunn, 75 

Horace  Templeton, 75 

Kate  O'Donoghue, 75 


Above  are  in  paper  cover,  or  a  fine  edition  is  in  cloth  at  $1.50  each. 
A  Rent  in  a  Cloud, 50  |  St.  Patrick's  Eve,... 50 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year,  in  one  volume,  paper  cover,  $1.00;  or  in  cloth,   1  50 
The  Diary  of  a  Medical  Student,  by  author  "  Ten  Thousand  a  Year,"       75 

MRS.  HENRY  WOOD'S  MASTERLY  BOOKS, 


The  Master  of  Greylands, $1  50 

Within  the  Maze, 1  50 

Dene  Hollow, 1  50 

Bessy  Rane, 1  50 

George  Canterbury's  Will, 1  50 

Verner's  Pride, 1  50 

The  Channings, 1  50 


The  Shadow  of  Ashlydyat, $1  50 

Squire  Trevlyn's  Heir, 1  50 

Oswald  Cray, 1  50 

Mildred  Arkell, 1  50 

The  Red  Court  Farm, 1  50 

Bister's  Folly, 1  50 

Saint  Martin's  Eve,...  ..  1  50 


Roland  Yorke.     A  Sequel  to  "  The  Channings," 1  50 

Lord  Oakburn's  Daughters  ;  or,  The  Earl's  Heirs, 1  50 

The  Castle's  Heir;  or,  Lady  Adelaide's  Oath, 1  50 

The  above  are  each  in  paper  cover,  or  in  cloth,  price  $1.75  each. 

Edina;  or,  Missing  Since  Midnight.    Cloth,  $1.00,  or  in  paper  cover,.  75 

The  Mystery.     A  Love  Story.     Cloth,  $1.00,  or  in  paper  cover, 75 

Parkwater.     Told  in  Twilight,       75 1 A  Life's  Secret, 50 

The  Lost  Bank  Note, v....       50  The  Haunted  Tower 50 

The   Lost  Will, 50  The  Runaway  Match, 25 

Orville  College, 50  [Martyn  Ware's  Temptation, 25 

Five  Thousand  a  Year,  25jFoggy  Night  at  Offord, 25 

The  Diamond  Bracelet,  25JWilliam  Allair, 25 

Clara  Lake's  Dream,  25j  A  Light  and  a  Dark  Christmas,  25 

The  Nobleman's  Wife, 25 1  The  Smuggler's  Ghost 25 

Frances  Hildyard, 25,Rupert  Hall, 25 

Cyrilla  Maude's  First  Love,...       25 'My  Husband's  First  Love, 25 

My  Cousin  Caroline's  Wedding       25 1  Marrying  Beneath  Your  Station  24 

EUGENE  SUE'S  LIFE-LIKE  WORKS. 


The  Wandering  Jew, $1  00 

The  Mysteries  of  Paris, 1  00 

Martin,  the  Foundling 1  00 

Above  are  in  cloth  at  $1.50  each. 


First  Love 50 

Woman's  Love, 50 

Female  Bluebeard, 50 

Man-of-War's-Man, 50 


Life  and  Adventures  of  Raoul  de  Surville.     A  Tale  of  the  Empire,...       24 

WILLIAM  H.  MAXWELL'S  WORKS. 

Wild  Sports  of  the  West, 75  I  Brian  O'Lynn, 75 

Stories  of  Waterloo, 75  I  Life  of  Grace  O'Malley, 50 

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3  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS.  2: 
HUMOROUS  AMERICAN  WORKS. 

With  Illuminated  Covers,  and  beautifully  Illnitrated  by  Felix  0.  C.  Darltyt 

Major  Jones's  Courtship.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley, 75 

Major  Jones's  Travels.     Full  of  Illustrations 75 

Major  Jones's  Georgia  Scenes,  with  Illustrations  by  Darley 75 

Rancy  Cotteoi's  Courtship,  by  author  of  Major  Jones's  Courtship,....  51) 

The  Adventures  of  Captain  Simon  Suggs.     Illustrated, 75 

Major  Jones's  Chronicles  of  Pineville.     Illustrated, 75 

Polly  Peablossoin's  Wedding.     With  Illustrations, 75 

Widow  Rugby's  Husband.     Full  of  Illustrations, 75 

The  Big  Bear  of  Arkansas.     Illustrated  by  Darley, 75 

Western  Scenes;  or,  Life  on  the  Prairie.     Illustrated, 75 

Streaks  of  Squatter  Life  and  Far  West  Scenes.     Illustrated, 75 

Pickings  from  the  New  Orleans  Picayune.     Illustrated, 75 

Stray  Subjects  Arrested  and  Bound  Over.     Illustrated, 75 

The  Louisiana  Swamp  Doctor.     Full  of  Illustrations, 75 

Charcoal  Sketches.     By  Joseph  C.  Neal.     Illustrated, 75 

Peter  Faber's  Misfortunes.     By  Joseph  C   Neal,     Illustrated, 75 

Peter  Ploddy  and  other  Oddities.     By  Joseph  <  ,  Neal, 75 

Yankee  Among  the  Mermaids.     By  William  E,  Burton 75 

The  Drama  in  Pokerville.     By  J.  M.  Field.     Llustrnted, 75 

New  Orleans  Sketch  Book.     With  Illustration    by  Darley, 75 

The  Deer  Stalkers.     By  Frank  Forester.     Illustrated 75 

The  Quorndon  Hounds.     By  Frank  Forester.     Illustrated, 75 

My  Shooting  Box.     By  Frank  Forester.     Illustrated 75 

The  Warwick  Woodlands.     By  Frank  Forester.     Illustrated, 75 

Adventures  of  Captain  Farrago.     By  II.  H.  Brackenridge, 75 

Adventures  of  Major  O'Regan.     By  H.  II.  Brackenridge,  75 

Sol  Smith's  Theatrical  Apprenticeship.     Illustrated, 75 

Sol  Smith's  Theatrical  Journey-Work.    Illustrated, 75 

Quarter  Race  in  Kentucky.     With  Illustrations  by  Darley, 75 

The  Mysteries  of  the  Backwoods.     By  T.  B.  Thorpe, 75 

Percival  Mayberry's  Adventures.     By  J.  H.  Ingraham, 75 

Sam  Slick's  Yankee  Yarns  and  Yankee  Letters 75 

Adventures  of  Fudge  Fumble;  or,  Love  Scrapes  of  his  Life, 75 

Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag.     By  Mrs.  Caroline  Lee  Hentz, 75 

Following  the  Drum.     By  Mrs.  Gen.  Viele 50 

The  American  Joe  Miller.     With  100  Engravings, 50 

SAMUEL  WARREN'S  BEST  BOOKS. 

Ten  Thousand  a  Year,   paper,$l  00     The  Diary  of  a  Medical 


Tea  Thousand  a  Year,   cloth,..  1  50 


dent, 75 


G.  P.  R.  JAMES'S  FASCINATING  BOOKS. 

Lord  Montague's  Pago.     BOI^K!  in  morooco  cloth, •-*!  50 

The  Cavalier.     By  the  author  of"  Lord  Montague's  Page,"  cloth,....  1  50 

The  Man  in  Black, 75  |  Arrah  Neil, , -  75 

Mary  of  Burgundy, 75  I  Eva  St.  Clair, 50 

B^*  Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  Retail  Prito, 
by  T.  3.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


82  T.  B,  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 


MISS  PARDOE'S  FASCINATING  WORKS. 

The  Rival  Beauties,... 


75 


Romance  of  the  Harem, 7o 


Confessions  of  a  Pretty  Woman,       75 

The  Wife's  Trials, 75 

The  Jealous  Wife, 75 

Each  of  the  above  five  books  are  also  bound  in  cloth,  at  $1.00  each. 

The  Adopted  Heir.     One  volume,  paper,  $1.00;  or  in  cloth, $1  50 

The  Earl's  Secret.    One  volume,  paper,  $1.00;  or  in  cloth,  1  50 

O'MALLEY  AND  HARRY  LORREQUER. 

Charles  O'Mallcy,  the  Irish  Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever.  Four  different 
editions:  one  at  75  cents  in  paper  cover,  and  three  bound  in  cloth,  viz.  : 
Sterling  Series,  $1.00,  People's  Edition,  $1,50,  &  Library  Edition,  $1.50. 

Harry  Lorrequer.  With  fJis  Confessions.  By  Charles  Lever.  Font- 
different  editions :  one  at  75  cents  in  paper  cover,  and  three  bound  in 
cloth,  viz.  :  Sterling  Series,  at  $1.00,  People's  Edition,  at  $1.50,  and 
Library  Edition,  at  $1.50. 

T.  S.  ARTHUR'S  HOUSEHOLD  NOVELS. 


The  Lost  Bride, 

The  Two  Brides, 

Love  in  a  Cottage, 

Love  in  High  Life, 

Year  after  Marriage, 

The  Lady  at  Home, 

Cecelia  Howard, 

Orphan  Children, , 

Debtor's  Daughter, 


50    The  Divorced  Wife, 50 

50    Mary  Moreton, 50 

50    Pride  and  Prudence, 50 

50    Agnes* :  or,  the  Possessed, 50 

50    Lucy  Sandford, 50 

50    The  Banker's  Wife, 50 

50    The  Two  Merchants, 50 

50    Trial  and  Triumph 50 

50    The  Iron  Rule, 50 

Insubordination;  or,  the  Shoemaker's  Daughters, 50 

The  Latimer  Family;  or,  The  Bottle  and  the  Pledge.     Illustrated 50 

Six  Nights  with  the  Washingtonians  ;  and  other  Temperance  Tales. 
By  T.  S.  Arthur.  With  original  Illustrations,  by  George  Cruik- 
shank.  One  large  octavo  volume,  bound 'in  beveled  boards,  $3.50  ; 

red  roan,  full  gilt  back,  $4.50;  or  full  Turkey  morocco,  fuli  gilt,...  6  00 

Lizzy  Glenn;  or,  the  Trials  of  a  Seamstress.    Cloth  $1.50;  or  paper,  1  00 

MRS.  GREY'S  CELEBRATED  NOVELS. 

Cousin  Harry, $1  00  |  The  Little  Beauty, $1  00 

The  above  are  each  in  paper  cover,  or  in  cloth,  price  $1.50  each. 


A  Marriage  in  High  Life, 50 

Gipsy's  Daughter, 50 

Old  Dower  House,... 50 

Belle  of  the  Family, 50 

Duke  and  Cousin, 50 

The  Little  Wife,.., 50 

Lena  Cameron, 50 

Sybil  Lennard,.. 50 

Manoeuvring  Mother 50 


The  Baronet's  Daughters, 50 

Young  Prima  Donna. ,....  50 

Hyacinthe 25 

Alice  Seymour, 25 

Mary  Sea,ham 75 

Passion  and  Principle, 75 

The  Flirt, 75 

Good  Society, 75 

Lion-Hearted,...  75 


j^S" Above  Books  will  be  sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  or'Retail  Price/ 
by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa. 


S,  STEPHENS^  WORKS, 

23  Volumes.    $1.50  each.    $34.50  a,  Set. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  No.  306  Chestnut  Street,  Phil* 
dtlphia,  Pa.,  have  just  published  an  entire  new,  complete,  and  uniform 
edition  of  all  the  works  written  by  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens,  the  popular 
American  Authoress.  This  edition  is  in  duodecimo  form,  is  printed  on 
the  finest  paper,  is  complete  in  twenty-three  volumes,  and  each  volume  -if 
bound  in  morocco  cloth,  library  style,  with  a  full  gilt  back,  and  is  sold  at 
the  low  price  of  $1.50  each,  or  $34.50  for  a  full  and  complete  set  of  the 
twenty-thr^e  volumes.  Every  family,  every  Jteading  Club,  and  every 
Private  or  Public  Library  in  this  country,  sliould  have  in  it  a  complete 
set  of  this  new,  beautiful  and  cheap  edition  of  the  works  of  Mrs.  Ann 
S.  Stephens.  The  following  are  the  names  of  the  volumes  •' 

BELLEHQOD  AND  BONDAGE;  or,  Bought  with  a  Price. 
BERTHA'S  ENGAGEMENT. 
LORD  HOPE'S  CHOICE;  or,  More  Secrets  Than  One, 

NORSTON'S  REST. 

THE  OLD  COUNTESS,     Sequel  to  "Lord  Hope's  Choice." 
THE  REIGNING  BELLE, 
PALACES  AND  PRISONS;  or,  The  Prisoner  of  the  Bastile. 

MARY  DERVVENT. 

THE  CURSE  OF  GOLD  ;  or,  The  Bound  Girl  and  Wife's  Trials. 
MABEL'S  MISTAKE;  or,  The  Lost  Jewels. 
WIVES  AND  WIDOWS;  or,  The  Broken  Life. 

THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD;  or,  The  Pet  of  the  Poor  House. 
THE  REJECTED  WIFE;  or,  The  Ruling  Passion. 
THE  WIFE'S  SECRET;  or,  Gillian. 
THE  HEIRESS;  or,  The  Gipsy's  Legacy. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 
SILENT  STRUGGLES.     A  Tale  of  Witchcraft. 
FASHION  AND  FAMINE, 
RUBY  GRAY'S  STRATEGY;  or,  Married  by  Mistake. 

MARRIED  IN  HASTE. 
DOUBLY  FALSE;  or,  Alike  and  Not  Alike. 
THE  GOLD  BRICK. 

A  NOBLE  WOMAN  ;  or,  A  Gulf  Between  Them. 
y^-Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens'  popular  books  are  for  sale  by  all  Bookseller* 
and  by  the  Publishers,  at  $1.50  each,  or  $34.50  for  a  complete  set  oj  thy 
twenty-three  volumes.  Copies  of  cither  one  or  more  of  the  aloi-e  books,  or 
a  complete  set  of  them,  will  be  sent  at  once  to  any  one,  to  any  place, 
postage  prepaid,  or  free  of  freight,  on  remitting  the  price  of  the  onu 
wanted  in  a  letter  to  the  Publishers, 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia. 


EfflA  I.JJJOUTHfORTffS  IORIS. 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Philadelphia,  have  just  pub 
lished  an  entire  new,  complete  and  uniform  edition  of  all  of  the  celt' 
bratcd  works  written,  by  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Soiithworth.  This  edition 
is  in  duodecimo  form,  is  printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  is  complete 
in  forty-three  volumes,  and  each  volume  is  bound  in  morocco  cloth,  with 
a  full  gilt  back,  and  is  sold  at  the  low  price  of  $1.50  a  volume,  or  $64.50 
for  a  full  and  complete  set.  Every  Family,  and  every  Library  in  this 
Country  should  have  in  it  a,  complete  set  of  this  new  edition  of  the 
works  of  Mrs.  Soutliworth.  The  foUoiving  are  the  names  of  the  volumes: 

THE  PHANTOM  WEDDING;  or,  the  Fall  of  the  House  of  Flint 
SELF-RAISED;  or,  From  the  Depths.  Sequel  to  "Ishmael." 
ISHMAEL;  or,  IN  THE   DEPTHS.     (Being  "Self-Made.") 
THE  "MOTHER-IN-LAW;"    or,   MARRIED  IN  HASTE. 
THE  MISSING  BRIDE;    or,    MIRIAM,  THE  AVENGER. 
VICTOR'S  TRIUMPH.     Sequel  to  "A  Beautiful  Fiend." 
A  BEAUTIFUL  FIEND;     or,  THROUGH  THE  FIRE. 

LADY  OF  THE  ISLE;    or,    THE   ISLAND   PRINCESS. 
FAIR  PLAY;    or,   BRITOMARTE,   THE  MAN-HATER. 
HOW  HE  WON  HER.     A  Sequel  to  "  Fair  Play." 
THE  CHANGED  BRIDES;  or,  Winning  Her  Way. 

THE  BRIDE'S  FATE.  Sequel  to  "The  Changed  Brides." 
CRUEL  AS  THE  GRAVE;    or,  Haliow  Eve  Mystery. 
TRIED  FOR  HER  LIFE.     A  Sequel  to  "  Cruel  as  the  Grave." 
THE  CHRISTMAS  GUEST;  or,  The  Crime  and  the  Curse. 

THE  BRIDE  OF  LLEWELLYN. 

THE  LOST  HEIR  OF  LINLITHGOW;    or,  The  Brothers. 
A  NOBLE  LORD.     Sequel  to  "  Lost  Heir  of  Linlithgow." 
THE  FAMILY  DOOM;  or,    THE  SIN  OF  A  COUNTESS. 

THE  MAIDEN  WIDOW.      Sequel  to  "  Family  Doom." 
THE  GIPSY'S  PROPHECY;  or,  The  Bride  of  an  Evening.       <% 
THE  FORTUNE  SEEKER;   or,  Astrea,  The  Bridal  Day. 
THE  THREE  BEAUTIES  ;  or,  SHANNONDALE. 

ALLWORTH  ABBEY;   or,   EUDORA. 
FALLEN  PRIDE;  or,  THE    MOUNTAIN  GIRL'S  LOVE. 
INDIA;    or,  THE  PEARL   OF  PEARL  RIVER. 
VIVIA;    or,  THE  SECRET  OF  POWER. 

THE  BRIDAL    EVE;    or,    ROSE    ELMER. 
THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER;    or,  The  Children  of  the  Isle* 
THE  PRINCE  OF  DARKNESS;    or,  HICKORY  HALL. 

THE   TWO  SISTERS;   or,    Virginia  and  Magdalene. 
THE    FATAL   MARRIAGE;    or,    ORVILLE    DEVILLE. 
THE   WIDOW'S   SON:    or,    LEFT   ALONE. 

THE   MYSTERY    OF   DARK    HOLLOW. 
THE  DESERTED  WIFE.  THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY. 

THh  LOST  HEIRESS.  THE  ARTIST'S  LOVE. 

THE  HAUNTED   HOMESTEAD.     LOVE'S  LABOR  WON. 
THE  SPECTRE  LOVER.  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON. 

THE  FATAL  SECRET.  RETRIBUTION. 


ove  books  are  for  sale  by  all  Booksellers,  or  copies  will  be  sent 
to  any  one,  at  once,  post-paid,  on  remitting  price  of  ones  wanted  to 

T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS,  Publishers, 

30G  CHESTNUT  STREET,  PHILADELPHIA,  PA. 


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